


But You Found Me in the End

by Dean_Wax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Anal Sex, Angel Wings, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Closeted, Death, Demons, Fallen Angels, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Guardian Angels, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Kissing, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Magic, Male Slash, Mindfuck, Murder, Mystery, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Original Slash, Poverty, Prostitution, Punishment, Revenge, Sexual Repression, Suicide, Temporary Amnesia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-08-20 05:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16549994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dean_Wax/pseuds/Dean_Wax
Summary: He pauses for a moment, mulling the words over in his head before he lets them out. “Are you jealous?” he asks.Yelling, I have him pinned up against the wall before I realise what I am doing. It is only when my fist is drawn back (like an arrow string) that I freeze. No. I don’t want to hurt him. I want…Ugh. I haven’t even frightened him. Perhaps this is what he was expecting. He tips his head back against the plaster, looking away with an empty laugh. “You won’t hit me, Rasputin,” he says. “You want to fuck me. It is not the same thing.”===Rasputin doesn't even remember his own name but he understands the workings of the meat market; he understands how the demons like to play. He's been caught and resold six times now. What he doesn't know is that his own past stalks him with just as much determination as his own will. And it won't let go; it has a hand around a bidding paddle right now. Who is this demon who insists he knows him, what did he do in life to earn himself this lot here in Hell? Memories only come in pieces. It makes him sick to look into those blood-red eyes. Why did it end up like this?





	1. The Market

I could be a celebrity. Up on stage, blinded by spotlights, the wind of an industrial fan at my back. It is warm down here, underground. The seating area is not so well illuminated; there are strips of red lights embedded into the floor between the aisles that give off a dim, red glow just bright enough to make out the strange, craggy rock that was hollowed out to make this cavern. It’s difficult to distinguish members of the crowd except for their bidding paddles, numbered in red LEDs. I believe they stay in the shadows in order to hide their identities.

  
    I am not famous. I am damaged goods, you see. The stars of the show are all the same; pretty, pale and perfect things in various stages of grief from the trials of their capture. They all have the same face, the and it is sad; the tears streaming down their cheeks often add to the lustre of the white silk and gossamer she has dressed us in. Although, ‘she’ is subjective; this glamourous auctioneer reminds me of an insect then a woman with the way she shrouds her face with a thick veil studded with black crystals. Even more ominous is the hard, clacking sounds which come from beneath the huge, black skirt of her glittering ball gown. I don’t want to know what kind of legs she is hiding under there.

  
    In the smallest way, I am lucky; by the time I am dragged up to the stage, she scoffs and takes her leave. She doesn’t touch me. It is up to the moody assistants offload the likes of me who are left in the holding pen; the ones who don’t even have all of their teeth. Most of mine are intact; a few chips from fighting. I guess I’m lucky. My skin, not so much; they have made an art board out of my… playing, I suppose. That was what would he would have called it, yes. The last man who bought me; he liked to play. I still have the drawings carved into my arms and etched across my belly. The lines are faded and shiny now; puffy, in places. They are lost in so much else of me.

  
    I wonder if, looking up at me from their bejeweled sunglasses, their couture visors and too-high collars covering up their disfigurements, some of these creatures are surprised by me. Afraid, even. I should not have lasted as long as this. I don’t have a good attitude. The skin of my chin is still mottled by the bruise; the red of split lip complementing the bluish hue of my scalp beneath blond hair shaved back to stubble. Dark circles contrast my blue eyes. My nose has been broken. My fingers have been broken; my arms, my ribs, my toes. I can barely taste any more since one master took a burning iron rod to my tongue, but I can still remember the smell of blood.

  
    Which monster will buy me today? I give the faceless crowd a slow, metal smile and that sends a bid trickling in. Fifty. Fifty what, I don’t know, but I know it’s a price that would barely justify feeding me to the dogs that roam the blistered earth above our heads. One hundred, a counter-bid from someone who cannot bear to see someone else get such a steal. Two fifty; three. Suddenly, the bid jumps to one thousand and my heart jolts. That is a bid from someone who is serious about owning me. I look up, searching the crowd. It sounded like a man’s voice that called out but I cannot see him; he has already lowered his paddle. No one else bids against him. I’m not surprised. The assistant rushes through the wrap-up and bangs the gavel to finalise the sale, then they haul me back to the pens and put me in the blindfold again.

  
    The world turns to sensory putty; it cannot be put into any true order or orientation and it is pointless to try. They do this to make it difficult to escape; I could not even say how many steps there are between here and the cell I slept in. They won’t take me back there, anyway. Now that I have been bought again, I know what is coming. I am shoved to my knees and a sting in my arm sends me under.

  
    I wake up to the faint smell of smoke. The blindfold is still on me but my hands are no longer shackled. Stupid. I remove the blindfold immediately and sit up on the edge of the bed. Black sheets and grey stone against a black marble floor that stretches out in a huge, round circle. There is one door close by, but no windows. The walls of the chamber are lined with evenly spaced pillars and the gaps between them are all bricked up and shrouded by grey curtains. A dying fireplace gives the room just enough light to show that I am alone. My torso is bare but I am wearing a pair of black silk lounge pants. My skin is clean. He must have washed and dressed me while I was still unconscious. I don’t like this show of kindness; I don’t trust simply because I am clean. There are plenty of cruel men who are clean.

  
    Normally, at this time I would sift through drawers and shelves to find something sharp, but there are none. The room is grand but bare; there is nothing but the bed and the fireplace. Why even bother having such a large space with nothing in it? Everything about this annoys me; it would have been better if I was still tied up and had no choice but to wait. I don’t like having having my hands free but nothing to do. It feels like a trap, or an insult, somehow. I’m still a prisoner here, no matter how comfortable he makes me.

  
    Just when I am considering whether or not the bedsheets would catch fire on the embers in the fireplace, the door opens and I spring to my feet. The man who steps through the door could only ever be the master of this place. Not because he is dressed ostentatiously; far from it. His slate robe is open over his bare chest and his long, black hair is disheveled. I don't think a servant would show themselves in such a state. He wears pants like mine and when he steps forward I see that his pallid toes are capped with pointed, black nails. I take a swift step back at that. He really is a monster.

  
    He huffs a laugh at me, crimson eyes crinkling at the corners. Despite the mirth in them, my heart skips a beat when I see that where the whites of his eyes should be, there is only black.

  
“You have been resold six times in as many months,” he tells me.

  
    The number has little meaning to me. I’ve been sold to many men; the memories of them blur together and overlap so much that I doubt I could put them in order, but I know what it means when I end up back at the auction house. I can’t recall their faces but I can remember the screams. Playing. Perhaps they called it ‘playing’ because they thought they could be carefree with the act. It doesn’t take long before they make a mistake, and then I make it two, sometimes three days before a roaming slaver picks me up again. There’s not a lot of cover one can take in the badlands. It takes too long to move between the rocky outcrops on foot.

  
    As he gets closer I start to circle around the room, keeping my distance with careful footwork so as not to get backed against a wall. If he wants to touch me, he should have tied me up while I was knocked out. After a moment, he stops and his smile widens to show a set of menacing teeth in a dark purple maw. Suddenly, he is upon me. The movement is so fast I could have not stopped it if I tried. No wonder he does not bother with bondage; the hand around my throat is so tight that I can only breathe in a shallow wheeze.

  
    “I have missed you,” he coos. “Do you remember me?”

  
    I frown and look up at him with bleary eyes. It has been so long since I have spoken that the first attempt comes out as a rasp. The squeezing hand eases a fraction and I take a breath and try again. “No,” I wheeze.  
    Black talons trace across my cheek before he cups my face and turns me to look over my shoulder. “Really?” he asks.

  
    “N-” I begin, but the sight on the wall stops me. A curtain between two of the pillars is gone; not raised or drawn back, just gone, and a mirror fills the space from floor to ceiling. The sight of my own reflection shocks me. It has been so long since I have looked in a mirror; not even washed my own face in a basin, they are always hosing me down like livestock but… my god, even the line of my nose has changed, flattened where I’m sure it was once straight. I open my mouth to say something but then my tongue is burning. One fat section of it is on fire even though my mouth is closed, and my eyes bulge and my lips blister as my feet kick out at the air; in confusion, in pain, oh god! How is he doing this?!

  
    “I wonder how far back we’ll have to go,” he murmurs, eyes meeting mine in the reflection.

 

    Far back? The rod; the glowing, metal rod that the last one took to my tongue. I curse without sound as I put together the pieces, thrashing in his iron-like grip. Yet just as quickly as the searing pain had come, it left me, and suddenly I am aware of the taste of my own teeth and spit again; subtle and yet worlds apart from truly tasting nothing at all. He’s undone it, somehow, with this mirror. I stare at it, transfixed, and his hand leaves my throat and both arms wrap around my chest, his chin settling into the crook of my shoulder to enjoy the show.

 

    The arms, next. The symbols and pictures they cut into the skin. I can remember the tip of the blade clearly as it traces the lines of my scars in reverse, opening up old wounds. I hiss at the sting and close my eyes, shaking my head. The pain is nothing compared to the rod but it is somehow worse, lingering now; the trace of the invisible knife point has stopped but I can still feel the blood dripping down my arms.

 

    “Open your eyes,” the instructions come to my ear, the brush of skin on skin made perverse by the way it is gentle, so gentle compared to how he holds me so tightly now.

 

    “Bastard!” I snarl, my blue eyes open. The knife starts again, relentless, uncaring of how I grit my teeth or squirm. Those wounds too, one by one; they close up again and leave nothing but smooth skin behind. Both arms, then my belly and my chest, the wounds opening up regardless of whether or not his arms are in the way. He’d rewinding my injuries somehow; the trick is in the mirror. I have to keep looking. Even though I know what is coming next, I find it difficult to look away.

 

     My breathing quickens as I brace myself for it, building up adrenaline as though it were a bar fight. It was like a bar fight when I took a punch to the nose. When I was trying to get away, I think. The _crunch_ of bone fills the room and I bark out a scream, snarling teeth framed by dripping red. As bad as it feels, as much as I hate him, the deep breaths I take feel sweet as the ridge of bone pushes back out into place, strong and straight again. I bite back a whine as  my hands tremble, fingers bending back and straightening into place again. The prick had done them one by one.

 

    “I could have made it faster,” he mutters, “I just didn’t want you to scream again.” His grip doesn’t let me free. I won’t close my eyes again; I won’t, fuck him! Whatever the magic is, I don’t know. I can take it. I’ve taken it all before, haven’t I? Every cut, whip and bruise. The minutes drag on and my face shifts and swells and changes colours like melted plastic bubbling under a flame. Blood comes and goes and turns me slippery; in the end he has me hooked under the arms like he is waiting for a friend to come and punch me in the kidneys. In the end, I am unharmed, albeit streaked with blood. In some ways I don’t fully recognise myself, now. Is this how I looked before I was taken? Skin intact and barely scarred, no bruises? I could almost be handsome, in a rough way. I wonder if I took a good price at the market, the first time. I don’t remember the first time.

 

    He still hasn’t let me go. I grunt and struggle just once or twice, trying to shake him off now that the mirror is done. The way he keeps holding me tightly, eyes fixed intently on the mirror… my heart sinks as I realise he is waiting for something.

 

    “It’s coming,” he whispers.

 

    I barely register the words before like a shot, something pierces my chest all sound leaves me. I have been stabbed before, but never like this. Through muscle, between bone - I feel the heat of the exit wound at the back of my shoulder and it is then I managed to draw in a long and stuttered gasp. No blood, this time; the invisible instrument of torture keeps it in place, I think. Eyes watering, I grimace as I know what’s coming but it doesn’t stop the scream ripping from my lips as it is pulled _out,_ in reverse; perhaps a spear, but when have I ever seen a spear? Breathing haggardly, my head slumps forward as I struggle to keep my gaze locked on my own reflection. My only reprieve is that it will be over soon, it will heal and go away as long as I keep looking. I feel my flesh join together again at my back, the pinch moving forward through my chest. So close, so close when he claps a hand over my eyes.

 

    I do scream, then; obscenities. Snarling. I try to thrash and bite at the air but I am too weak, and it makes my chest ache. I yelp as he clamps his other hand over the bleeding hole. When his hands shift enough for me to crack one eye open, I see the mirror is covered by the curtain again, as if he had someone else close it for him. Yelling, I kicked out with my feet, trying to drag the cloth aside, but he is already hauling me back towards the bed.

   

    “You’ll understand,” he tells me, over and over again. “You’ll understand; you’ll see.”

 

    “Let me see!” I roar, snarling as I am spun around and shoved, back-first onto the bed. I try to push myself up but he is already on top of me, pressing his palm down over the wound again. When I try to grab his throat, he catches my wrist; he is too fast for me. The look in his bright red eyes is like a madman. From this angle, I see too much of his big, gleaming teeth.

 

    “You won’t leave me again,” he says. “Rasputin.”

 

    He speaks the name with such conviction. It is meaningless to me. Yet he reeks of familiarity. I don’t know who he is! If I did, I would curse him, I would rip his hair from his scalp and… and...

 

    My threats, unspoken, are short-lived before black creeps in around the edges of my vision. I pass out again.

  
    I don’t know who he is but only mad, mad men act like this.


	2. Blue Lines

The landscape is alien here; the ground is burnt and mottled, almost scabbed. The unidentifiable badlands stretch out for miles, wavering in the mirage of a sweltering heat. Yet I feel cold and helpless; I can barely see for the tears. I stare into my own, dead face but how can it be me? The face is unblemished and utterly still. He could be sleeping but I know he is not. A black, straight shape sticks out of his neck and the sight makes me afraid because I know that it will happen to me, too.

It hurts; oh God, it hurts. The only sound I can hear is my own sniveling and that feels me with a panic I cannot describe. Am I going to die?

There is a sound, like a heartbeat. It is fast, steady and light. My eyes open.

I am on the bed again, but my feet face towards the headboard. My wrists are shackled together on my stomach as though I am laid out for a wake. Sitting up with a grimace, I twist and see a long, thick chain snaking off the bed, across the tiles and then all the way up to a hook in the ceiling at the centre of the room. A curious choice.

My shoulder is wrapped in gauze. Even though it hurts to move, I get up and test the length of the chain. With my arms pulled high above my head, my toes can just graze the fabric of the curtain that cloaks the mirror on the wall. My shoulder throbs in protest as I try to kick up the fabric enough to get a glimpse of my reflection. It’s no use; he has planned the length of this chain very carefully. I retreat to the centre of the room where the chain has enough slack to hang myself, if I wanted. He must know that I won’t. Why would my body have been so battered if I was so inclined to take my own life?

I didn’t expect being owned to be this boring. I don’t sleep; unconsciousness is not the same thing. My only choices are to sit and wait, lie and wait or stand and wait. I know I complain a lot but even now I would prefer if there were only one option, one thing to focus on. I choose to lie and wait in the middle of the room, staring up at the hook; the ache of the stone against my back helps me focus in a better way than the throbbing in my shoulder.

The door opens and my eyes flick towards him. His hair is half tied up this time, and now his robe is ivory. He carries with him a small, lacquered bowl brimming with cherries. His lips curl into a smile and he eats one as he stands over me.

“You don’t eat any more, do you? Not even for pleasure,” he remarks, staring thoughtfully for a moment before he sinks to his knees and sets the bowl beside my head. Grabbing my chin, he leans down and kisses me.

I am overwhelmed by a sudden sweetness as his tongue pushes inside my mouth. Coughing, the spasm pulls at the wound on my chest and I struggle to push him away with the nothing but the threat of my blunt teeth which slide off his slippery tongue without purchase.

He chuckles as he pulls away at his own leisure, dangling a cherry above my lips by the stem. I look away with a scowl. I am not interested. He scoffs, then, but he is still smiling even as he places a palm over the gauze and applies a steady pressure.

“I remember when you were this weak,” he recalls with a strange fondness in his eyes. “But you were never this dispassionate. I know you’re hiding in there.”

Sniffing, I try to use my feet to slide my body away from him on the tiles but he pins me in place.

“Every man who ever bought you is dead,” he says.

Yes. I smile before I can stop it, and it seems to please him.

“There it is,” he croons, reaching out to trace the curve with one fingertip. “Just a glimmer.” The action causes the smile to drop from my face and I put my guard up again. “What a hollow shell you have become,” he chuckles. “It is a miracle any part of you is left at all.”

Something about the brightness in his eyes grates on me. I don’t remember any of the other men who bought me pretending to care about me like this. His motive isn’t clear. If all this was because he knew me, then what was I to him? I don’t bother asking because whatever the answer might be, I don’t buy it. If he really knew me, he would not try to keep me contained like this. I need to keep working. I need to… to…

His warm palms close over mine and I spasm, squirming on the tiles as I try to push away. He makes a sneering sound at me, some language I don’t know, and hauls me up onto my knees. I grimace and try unsuccessfully to avoid the pits of those burning-coal eyes. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” he scolds me. It catches me off guard.

“Fuck you!” I snap. “You make me bleed, you shackle me… why would I want you close, huh?”

He clicks his tongue, reaching out for my wrists. I pull away again and he yanks me closer with a warning snarl before opening the cuffs. “Look,” he says gruffly, then corrects himself. “Feel.” He pulls me to sit upright and brings both of my hands up over his shoulders.

I am not sure what to expect. Part of me just wants to push him away or maybe wring my hands around his neck. The ache in my chest reminds me of how weak I am in this moment, so I feel, instead. Cautiously pushing against the rumpled silk I feel horns, or perhaps stumps of bone set into his shoulder blades, curving into points. My palms slide past them, feeling nothing more than smooth flesh underneath the fabric, yet I am suddenly overcome by a sense of urgent unease. Rubbing my hands over it again in a frantic embrace, I pull back and spin him around with a grimace, numb to the ache in my chest caused by my actions.

His eyes make half moons as he lets me pull the robe down his torso, exposing his back. The horns are pointed and as black as his hair but they aren’t what calls to me. Sprawling across the pallid skin are two immense wings tattooed in old, blue ink. The lines are smudged and shaky in places but they invoke a fury in me that makes my heart pound fast and shallow with a rush that I have never felt with any murder. I want to jam my fingers into the flesh and rip it back like bad carpet. I can imagine the act so vividly that it startles me.

“You.” The word is a weak, quiet curse and I am not sure how to follow it.

He is grinning. “Do you like them?” he asks, letting the robe slip from his arms. “They are so funny. The hubris of it. The absolute gall. Isn’t it hysterical?”

My head hurts. It is a tight, sharp tension at the back of my skull. Grimacing, I screw my eyes shut as I fight the urge to maul him. I can’t. My fingertips are too blunt. I would never survive the retaliation. The pain spreads to the centre of my chest and I let out a furious howl that shifts in pitch as my wounded shoulder joins the fray. As I draw breath, I register his raucous laughter ringing around the room.

“Yes!” he cheers, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Yes, I remember that sound! What else makes you angry, I wonder? Rasputin.”

That name again. “What?” I snarl.

His lips are tinted by cherry juice as he leans forward with a smirk. “I’m only just getting started.”


	3. The Choosing Game

My wound is healing quickly, as my wounds always do. He changes the bandages regularly but I still have to wonder if this monster is a fool. He has become obsessed with asking me to choose things, from set of two, or three, or four; and always, always food. It is annoying. I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish. I don’t need to eat. I have a purpose above eating, if I could only remember what it is.

  
    “Good morning,” he chimes, pushing through the door with a familiar tray in hand.

  
    The chains sway softly as I turn my head to look at him. My hands are free now; the shackles have been replaced with a metal collar. Honestly, I prefer it. I am not so proud that a thing like this would bother me. I can use my hands now, but I still can’t reach the curtain.

  
    “Is it morning?” I drawl. I have no way of knowing.

  
    “It is,” he simpers as he sets down the tray. Today’s robe is golden, and his hair is in a loose braid. Crouching down, he pushes the tray towards me as he always does. This may be the sixth or seventh time. “Pick something,” he says.

  
    I glower at a spot on the wall before I finally lower my gaze to the tray with contempt. An apple, a slice of bread, some kind of candy bar. I want it to end. With a huff, I snatch up the fourth option, a yellow bell pepper, and turn it upside down in my hands. I take an angry bite out of the base and chew with resent in my eyes. I don’t feel any different but there is a curse on the tip of my tongue that I don’t quite know how to say. The pinched, hostile sentiment behind it lingers in my mind for a moment and I hope that he can feel it.

  
    He doesn’t.

  
    “Good,” he nods, pleased. He collects the tray as he gets up and heads back to the door. “Wait here.”

  
    I am suspicious, yet I have no choice but to wait. At least the bell pepper gives me something to do. Biting into the yellow flesh, I methodically work my way around the cluster of seeds attached to the stem on the inside. He returns just as I set down the remains on the floor, bringing with him a bundle of velvet cloth which clangs on the tiles as he sets it down.

  
    I can hardly believe my eyes when he unrolls the fabric and pulls out the first item. A pistol. I want to laugh; there is a strange spasm in my chest when I watch him lay it out on the tiles. What a stupid weapon; it is probably not even loaded. No matter what the other objects are, I am confident it is the worst of the lot.

  
    My expression changes when he produces a knife from the cloth. That, I could use. If nothing else, I could pay him back for stabbing me. I’ve done much worse with less. It is an effort to keep from lunging for it while he is still paying close attention. I could carve those markings right off his back, although I might have to slit his throat first. Yes.

  
    He pulls out the largest item in the set and I pause. It is a blunt object; a cheap, metal baseball bat. As far as my intentions go, the choice is perhaps even worse than the gun, especially when I consider the state of my shoulder. Yet I can’t take my eyes off of it, from the scratched aluminum to the grubby rubber tape on the handle. It seems so familiar that I almost feel afraid.

  
    _Take the knife._

 _  
_ “Pick one,” he invites me.

  
    _Take the knife!_

 _  
_ I hesitate. Why? The choice is so obvious. Take the knife and kill him. My bondage is of no concern to me. Once I have healed enough, I can climb the chain and unhook myself. It would be easy. The choice should be easy. And yet…

  
    I want to touch it. The mere thought that it could be taken away if I don’t take it now is intolerable to me. It sends my heartbeat racing as I raise up onto my hands and knees. The knife is just two feet away from me. Wincing, I reach out and snatch up the rubber handle. The weight of the bat feels at home in my hand and I let out a roar as I swing it at his face. The pain in my chest is worth it just to hear the metallic ring as it connects with that sculpted cheekbone.

  
    The force of the blow makes him fall on his side and I leap after him on all fours like some kind of feral animal. I already have the bat hooked under his chin when I realise his body is slack.

  
    “What are you doing?” I demand. “I could kill you!”

  
    “You won’t kill me.” Even his wheeze has an unnerving confidence.

  
    Tightening my grip on both ends of the bat, I yank his head back higher but he still offers no resistance. Fine. Fine! Sneering, I reach beside us and take up the knife I should have chosen. Ramming the end of the bat between his shoulder blades, I forced him back down onto the tiles and shift back far enough to strip the robe from his shoulders. We will see how confident he is when I cut those tattoos right out of his skin.

  
    I exhale. Bare skin. No trace of ink. How?!

  
    He laughs at me; a quiet, smug sound. “You didn’t think they were real, did you?” He fixes me with one red, crinkled eye and half a smile as he rests his bruised cheek on the tile. “Why would I need a tattoo?”

  
    He shifts beneath me; not his body, but the horns protruding from his shoulder blades. They push out from his back, growing into structures so immense that each one could easily wrap around his own body.

  
    Scrambling backwards, I watch as he slowly gets to his feet and turns to face me. The spiked appendages fan out behind him like black, skeletal wings. Devoid of feathers, the bones drag across the ground with a scraping sound that almost threatens to cause sparks, like flint. He folds them behind his back and stands over me, looking no less regal despite his injury.

  
    “It’s not possible,” I whimper.

  
    “It is,” he informs me serenely, not without some amusement. He reaches down to cup my cheek, drumming his pointed fingernails along my jawline.

  
    It is only a split second later I notice the syringe in his other hand. I jerk away but it is too late; the sting in my neck is followed by a slow and fuzzy feeling that makes my eyes close.


	4. Unfamiliar Faces

He left the bat for me. I think the eating has made me tired; even after I awake from the drug, I drift back to sleep, curled around the bat with the handle resting against my forehead. It feels strange, to sleep again. I catch glimpses of shapes in my dreams; gently glowing balls of colour and hanging crystals which glitter like stars. Something about their beauty upsets me and I awake with a frown.

  
    I have no more bondage, now, but it does not make any difference. The door is solid wood and always locked and the curtain has become blocked by impassable metal bars which stretch from the floor to the ceiling. I don’t know how he made them appear. After what I have already seen, anything could be possible.

  
    “How far back do you remember?” he asks, stroking my cheek.

  
    I open my eyes. I hadn't heard him come in; it must been when I was sleeping. Leaning up on one elbow, I find him sitting on the bed beside me with his hair in loose waves. After another moment, I blanch away from his hand.

  
    “Three… maybe four men before you?” I shrug as I sit up. “It all blurs together.”

  
    “Do you remember _why_ you killed them?”

  
    “They deserved it,” I answer without missing a beat. It is as simple as day or night. “They all had chances; they lost them when they bought me and showed themselves to be sinners.”

  
    “ _Sinners_ ,” he repeats in a smug purr. “An interesting choice of words for a murderer.”

  
    Annoying. I click my tongue. “I never said I was clean,” I sneer. “No one is. Not even you, despite your… _hrm_.” I trail off with a wrinkle in my nose.

  
    “Yes?” he presses me, eyebrows raised.

  
    “Why do you have wings?” I ask bluntly.

  
    “Because I died,” he drawls, leaning back on his hands. “It happens to everyone.”

  
    “Wings are for angels. You don’t seem so holy to me.” I narrow my eyes suspiciously.

  
    He gives a bitter chuckle. “And your ‘holy’ does not seem ‘holy’ to me. Not everything is so black and white, Rasputin.”

  
    Rasputin. “Is that my name?” I ask. The word feels foggy to me. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  
    “It will come back in time,” he explains, watching me carefully with hooded eyes. “I am not going to give it away.”

  
    Of course he isn’t. Huffing, I let myself fall back to the bed. “If you care so much about my memories, why don’t you just _tell_ me?” I complain.

  
    “Because you would not believe me even if I did,” he scoffs, standing up and brushing his hair behind one ear. "It's too... _unusual_."

  
    As he circles around the bed, I follow his gaze and find him staring at the iron bars.

  
    “This isn’t working,” he muses aloud with a sigh. “I had hoped that letting the shoulder wound linger would help you remember, but it seems I will have to try something different.”

  
    I sit up keenly, eyes alert. “What is behind the bars?”

  
    “What is behind the _curtain_ ,” he corrects me idly, strolling over and gripping two bars in his hands. He leans against them with a thoughtful sigh, looking at me over his shoulder. “The real question is, do you think you are ready?”

  
    Pushing off the bed, I approach the bars, careful to keep a few feet away from him as I reach out to touch the metal. I blink and suddenly they are no longer there; my fingers close into a fist in the air. Glancing towards him, I see him backing away with a sly smirk, sticking his hands in the pockets of his silky pants.

  
    Peering at the curtain, I step closer with an air of trepidation. I’ve spent so many hours stuck in this room just staring at it that I don’t know what to expect. At times it seems like shadows shift behind the cloth, like an angry beast pacing back and forth at the barrier. Yet why should I be afraid? With everything that has already happened to me, there is nothing that could be behind this curtain that I couldn’t handle. Reaching out, I push the dark fabric aside to see what it hides.

  
    A gentle puff of air pushes out of me. It’s still so shocking to see myself in a mirror now. I press my palm to the glass and my own reflection stares back at me, incredulous at all the fuss. I see my hair has grown longer during my time here, the platinum crop shining almost white against my dark surroundings. The wound in my chest has healed down to a small, round scab near my shoulder.

  
    Curious... I feel as though there should still be more scars and marks across my body. I take my hand away from the glass and turn my palms over in front of my thoughtfully. Hadn’t I worked, before? My hands are so smooth now but I remember digging. I remember the sound of shifting gravel and dirt so clearly. As I stare back at my face, nothing else seems to happen.

  
    “Shouldn’t I be… hm, rewinding?” I wave a hand in the air as I search for a word, glancing back at the demon.

 

    “There’s nothing left to rewind,” he sighs, sitting down on the bed and leaning back on his hands. “I can only do so much. I’m not a god.”

 

    “But you are holy,” I say snidely.

 

    He doesn’t like that. “I am not. Holy,” he glowers.

 

    I smirk, but the joy is short-lived as I turn back to the mirror. “What am I supposed to be doing, then?” I sigh.

 

    “Look,” he tells me. I see his reflection by my shoulder. “Try to get to know yourself again, Rasputin. The mirror can’t take you back to before you came here, but people here can shape themselves… if they remember how to. Most just do it subconsciously.”

 

    It sounds like shit to me. I can’t help but jeer. “What, so I give myself nose job?”

 

    “Do you even recognise yourself?” he quips back coolly.

   
    “...No,” I admit, peering back at my reflection. This is the face of the man who died beside my in my dream, I am sure of it. But if that is true, then how am I supposed to look? I don’t understand how I am supposed to spot the difference. Calloused hands? Maybe. But what else? I expected the curtain to hold so many answers… now all I have are more questions. Why doesn’t the bastard just give me a clue? Grunting in frustration, I turn around and find the bed empty. He’s gone again. Swearing, I look back to the glass. There is nothing else to do.


	5. Wings

I spend most of my time kneeling in front of the mirror. If this fascination is vanity, I do not care. My face changes in little glimmers that I can catch if I stare closely enough. My eyes seem older, somehow, and there is a faded scar that notches into my low, straight brow. Another two of my teeth are chipped, now; or maybe I’m just going insane. If you leave a parrot alone with a mirror, it can go mad. That could be happening to me.

  
    My shoulder has healed down to a round, red weal. There is another mark that I can make out clearly now that the etchings of the dead men have faded away. In the centre of my chest, slightly to the left, the skin is almost silvery where the scar tissue stretches across it. It doesn’t go away no matter how long I wait. It must be important. I don’t remember how I got it, but something about it reminds me of the stars.

  
    “Rasputin.”

  
    I lift my head when a hand touches my shoulder. My eyes had slipped out of focus; I hadn’t seen him come behind me. Blinking, I take in his reflection. His hair is long and straight, and he is shirtless today. Something is different, though; his pants are tighter, made of something leathery, and his navel is pierced with a short, silver chain set with three white crystals, evenly spaced. I gasp when I see it, twisting round to see it in the flesh, but there is nothing there. Just bare skin and black silk pants hanging loosely from his hips.

  
    A pang of loss hits me hard and I stifle a sob, closing my eyes and press my eye socket over the patch of pale, taut skin as though that might make them appear. Why did they seem so familiar to me? It hurts that they are gone. Gritting my teeth, I clutch at his sides as though they might provide answers but I know that he will give me none.

  
    “I… brought food,” he says. His tone is hollow as he lifts a green plastic bag. The contents thud softly as he lets it drop to the floor and a single orange rolls across the tiles. He places one hand on the back of my head, watching me without words for a moment before he reaches under my arms.

  
    “Get up,” he coaxes me with a sad smile, drawing me close. “What did you see?”

  
    “Stars,” I whisper truthfully. “And crystals that are not for me.” It’s true; I can feel it in my teeth. My forehead hurts from frowning.

  
    “You remember that?” he huffs out a laugh. “I thought you hated them.”

  
    This pull of intimacy is frightening. “Hated what?” I implore him. “Who are you?”

  
    “I’ve never seen you so tender,” he whispers with awe, and I want to cry. He touches my cheek as the first spasm of grief hits me, stilling the quake with the warmth of his hand.

  
    Even now, in the pit of me, something complains. I don’t… want. It is weakness. I hear the sound of my own breathing as he presses his lips to the shell of my ear, watching our reflections in the mirror. His touch is warm when he traces curves down my back.

  
    My eyes open with a chill in my chest as I recognise the shapes drawn onto my skin by his fingertip. Looking over my shoulder, I see the blue ink spread across my skin just as the scars had shown themselves to me. The betrayal is like a punch to the guts and I stagger backwards with a strangled grunt.

  
    “You!” I accuse, clutching a hand across my stomach and baring my teeth.

 

    “No,” he says, face still and serious. “I did not do this to you. You chose to.”

  
    My head hurts. It hurts! A pressure against the bones; something somewhere is ringing so faintly it barely registers but I can always hear it. I jam a thumb between my eyebrows and press hard to no avail. Crying out, I thrash and stumble until I feel the cool surface of the glass connect with my temple. I slump against the mirror with a whimper and sink to my knees. To think that the wings had always been a part of me. To think that he would laugh at them, even when he had wings of his own!

  
    I know I should open my eyes, but I don’t. I just want to be alone. It was easier when all I had was rage.


	6. Breaking Through

The paint peels off the walls. Something about the atmosphere here - the muck, the mould, the mattress on the floor - makes me feel heavy and empty all at once. I am holding an old coffee can. The label is gone and the lid is warped. There is nothing inside it. I have been robbed. It makes a weak sound as I hurl it against the wall.

  
“What did you expect?” A voice jeers, old and thickly accented.

  
I spin around and find him sitting at a folding table in the kitchen on the other side of the small apartment, a grubby fan of playing cards in one hand. His long, dark hair hangs lank over his face but I can see the corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace.

  
“You think you can hide things from me?”

  
I step backward. He seems fuzzy, somehow, wrong; the voice doesn't match any way he's spoken before. I do not think it is really him; just some stand-in for the dream. There are stains on his undershirt and I see his fingers are gnarled when he swipes up a new card from the deck. I expect to feel anger but it doesn’t come; just an impotent dislike which twists and coils in on itself inside me, setting my teeth on edge. What  _ did  _ I expect? I don’t feel surprised.

  
“Old man,” I grind out. I’m not sure what should follow. The tone already makes it sound like an insult.

  
He laughs at me; a braying sound. Suddenly it feels like a lot of words are cramming up in my throat all trying to get out at once. Swinging my head down with a huffing snarl, I catch movement by the door. Small. Red. The black gloss of a shoe. I stagger after it without a second thought, hearing the scuffing sound of footsteps in my head. Pushing my way through the apartment door, I come face to face with cheap plasterboard wall. Grunting, I turn back and find wall there, too. Another wall. Another wall. I’m boxed in. I don’t want to be. I want to be--

  
_ Ugh _

_  
_ __ I want to be out. Grey dust chafes my knuckles but I just punch harder. I want to be out. I--

  
I blink and for a fleeting moment all I see is a small, red figure in the distance. Time stops. My heartbeat slows. When I open my eyes again I am staring at a sink that is far too clean for the likes of me. The immaculate porcelain seems to repel my blood, which turns orange as running water carries it towards the drain. A broken nose; now, this is a feeling I know. Hunched over the basin, I grit my teeth and raised my hands push the cartilage back into place with a crunching  _ pop _ . Cursing, I double over and pound my fists on the glossy bathroom counter, taking deep breaths.

  
When I finally straighten up to check my reflection in the mirror, I see him leaning against the door frame, watching me. Younger, maybe. His voice matches his body now. The most noticeable difference is his eyes. Not red anymore. Brown.

  
“I can get you work, you know,” he says.

  
The snort makes my face throb but I laugh anyway because it is funny. Me, working! Especially at a place like... like what? I can't remember but I know it is no place for me.

  
“Not like that.” He clarifies, stepping closer. “Cleaning, maybe. Security. It would still pay much more than scraps.”

  
I lower my eyes and spit into the sink. If I look at him closely, I’m not sure I’ll like what I see. I can’t smell shit with my nose swollen like this but I can taste a hint of perfume on the air at the back of my tongue.   
“It is fine,” I say finally. “I don’t need it.”

  
He places a hand on my arm. “You do.”

  
Grunting, I turn away. The fingers leave my flesh but their feeling lingers, creating a strange feeling of disconnection that I try to rub away with a towel.

  
He’s not right. I don’t want to say ‘wrong’ but he is not right, either. I don’t want the work; not from him. I don’t want to... be. What is it, indebted to him? Kept? Maybe. Maybe I am afraid that the easy life he could provide me would turn me soft. It’s not… time, for that, yet. Not yet. “I don’t.” I grind out the words with frustration.

  
Another hand on my arm. A wash cloth. It is warm here. I open my eyes to another room, surrounded by the same black tile I have seen for weeks now. I am sitting in a bath and I gasp and open my eyes fully when I feel his body flush against my back.   
“Are you awake?” he asks in a gentle murmur by my ear. Water trickles from the cloth as he changes hands and wipes my other arm.

  
I flinch because the teasing still stings. Does he really want to help me, or am I just an amusement to him? Does he understand how much I must have believed in such a thing to get it tattooed across my skin? Even now I feel the wings behind me as though the ink has a weight. It's important, I know it. I know it is.

  
“You’re angry,” he observes.

  
“No,” I huff. My eyelids feel heavy. “Not angry.”

  
“Hurt?”

  
I don’t answer. When his sinewy arms cross over my chest, I am torn between the urge to pull away and the urge to shrink back against him where it feels safe.

  
“I could let it stay like this… but I won’t,” he says gently.

  
That sounds like a bad omen. “Won’t you?” I ask.

  
“No, I won’t,” he promises, holding me close.

  
He is gentle. He bathes me. Yet I remember the ache in my skull; the pain in my chest. It is hard to keep the urgency out of my voice even though my words are quiet. “What will you do?”

  
“You will see.”

  
I tremble. I am not sure if I want to see.

  
“I want you to know that I do it all for you, Rasputin,” he explains solemnly. “Even when it does not seem like it. Maybe... it is a little for myself, too, but it is always for you.”

  
The words make me forget to breathe. It comes back a moment later, the exhale just as shaky as the gasp that follows.

  
“ _ Shhh _ ,” he soothes. “I’ve got you. Go back to sleep. Take as long as you need.”

  
What choice do I have? I close my eyes.


	7. The Need to Eat

I wake up next to a body. Breathing; alive. These sheets are white. The red glow of the alarm clock on the bedside table reads 2:03AM and I don’t know if I am in a dream again. Reaching out, I brush long strands of dark hair aside to examine the pale back slowly rising and falling in front of me. Black horns. Perhaps I am not dreaming.

  
He stirs, then stills. Peering at him in the dim light, I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. A faint glow is coming from the bedroom door, which opens out into an apartment where everything looks far too expensive for me. My bare toes sink into plush cream carpet as I venture out, passing my eyes over a large, flat-screen TV with something close to contempt. People live like this. It’s almost sickening. And yet... as alien as every leather sofa and brushed chrome surface seems, this place still feels familiar to me.

  
I tread lightly into the kitchen (marble tiles; the same as the room I was held in) and open the fridge to find a cardboard box in checkered white and green. Pizza for me. I know this. He only ever eats one slice, right? At least, only one slice is missing when I lift the lid. Just the sight of it sends a pang of hunger through me. I had forgotten what that could feel like. Before I was just empty, but without the  _ need _ .

  
I devour as much as my shrunken stomach lets me, illuminated by the white light of the fridge before I push the box back inside and shut the door. I wash the grease and crumbs from my hands in the sink and then take a drink straight from the faucet.   
Finally feeling full for the first time since I can remember, my ears register a faint hum that fills the otherwise silent space of the apartment. The fridge, I guess. It is comforting to me. Stepping back out into the main living space, I head towards the front door and pause when I notice a familiar handle sticking out of the umbrella stand beside it. The baseball bat. I pull it out without a second thought, testing my grip on the rubbed handle before I swing it up to rest across the breadth of my shoulders.

  
    Something about this door feels wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. Tilting my head to one side, I frown at it with the lurking feeling that people may break through at any moment, coming for me. Locks; yes. That’s what it needs. Didn’t there used to be three? Two keys and a deadbolt.

  
“What are you staring at?” The question comes from the direction of the bedroom.

  
I glance his way. “The deadbolt is missing.”

  
He frowns and steps closer with an unsteady gait. He is wearing briefs and a long, open robe. I realise now that I am naked. No matter, now. It doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the door.

  
“You’re right,” he muses, his head lolling to one side as he reaches the door. “I guess I just didn’t bother. It’s… not that important, now.” Snickering, he pulls it open, standing aside so I can see.

  
There is no hallway; just the room where he was holding me. Bed, mirror, ceiling hook. It seems even emptier now that I am not in it. The door looked so different from the other side.

  
“You’ve been living here, all this time?” Taking the bat off my shoulders, I hold it loosely by my side. 

  
“Yes.”

  
“How?” I frown. If I remember this place from before, how could it be here now?

  
“Everyone makes their own things here,” he shrugs, shutting the door. “Some of them don't even realise it. I just figured out how to make my experience a little more comfortable.” He grins.

  
“Where are we?” I ask.

  
“Home,” he says, the smile quickly fading from his face.

  
“No,” I disagree immediately, remembering the mattress on the ground. “No, I don’t belong here. I didn’t live here.”

  
“I see you haven’t changed,” he clicks his tongue, pushing past me as he staggers to the kitchen. Hopping up to sit on the counter, he grabs a bottle with red label and unscrews the lid. I watch as he takes a deep swig from the bottle before carrying on, waving his hand around as he speaks. “You  _ do _ belong here,” he urges me. “You just didn’t  _ live  _ here. I must have asked you a thousand times. But no; no, no, no; it is too good for you. You would rather sleep with rats than stay with me.”

  
“Fuck you,” I scowl. It feels natural. “You don’t know me.”

  
“Oh, but I do know you, Rasputin,” he jeers in a low tone, leaning forward. “Perhaps right now I even know you better than yourself. How much do you remember, eh?”

  
Pizza. Red and blue lights. Loud music with bass that thrums out into the alleyways.

  
“Give me a name,” he challenges. “One name that isn’t your own. Tell me.”

  
A name. A name… “Vasily.”

  
A single huff of air pushes out of him so forcefully that it jostles his whole body. Eyes wide and mouth agape, he stares at me as he sets the bottle down on the counter with a heavy  _ thunk _ . “Vasily?” he repeats with bared teeth, pushing himself off the counter. “ _ Vasily _ ? You remember that piece of shit before me?!”

  
I grit my teeth and use the bat to stop his hands before they reach me. Wrestling with him up close, I can smell the vodka on his breath. He must have been drinking before he went to sleep. It has made his movements slower; with a grunt I heave him to the side and send him falling back onto the nearest sofa. “You’re drunk,” I grimace, pointing the blunt end of the bat at his throat.

  
“You’d be drunk too, if you were me,” he sneers. With a little spit of air he looks down at the ground. “Vasily…”

  
The sight of him sulking like this makes me wrinkle my nose and I feel tired and heavy again. “I am going back to bed,” I grouse, taking the bat with me as I stalk back towards the bedroom. “Fucking eat something before you join me, eh? Stupid...” Muttering darkly to myself, I crawl back under the covers. I can’t tell if I hear crying or laughter just before I pass out.


	8. Memories in Smoke

His cigarettes are scented. The smoke is cloying and somehow sweet. The number of vices he has is stupid to me; it is a miracle that he seems to be so wealthy.

  
“You’re wasting money, you know.”

  
“As if that matters now,” he chuckles, tapping ash into a crystal bowl. His wings are out as if to remind me they are there, the black structures forming a cage that frames him. We are sitting on the floor of his balcony, barefoot, in briefs. It is night again; too dark to seek much of the craggy hellscape far, far below. This whole building hangs suspended in the air, I think, but who knows how. He just shrugged when I asked.

“Why bother, then?” I scoff even as I reach out to take one and light up. “These things will kill you.”

  
He scoffs in turn as he watches me take a drag. “Asshole.”

  
It’s hard to stop my lips from matching the curve of his smile as I push out a plume of smoke that smells like cloves. It was a hollow platitude, after all. We’re both dead. The thought occurs to me casually as I lean my head back against the balcony railing. “How did you die?” I ask.

  
His smile changes. I catch a flash of teeth before the expression fades completely and he looks away, pressing the cigarette to his lips. “... It was quick,” he says finally, tendrils of smoke chasing his words.

  
“So you won’t tell me?”

  
“No.”

  
“So you  _ will _ tell me?” I grin.

  
“Eat dick,” he smiles.

  
Perhaps it is better this way. Stubbing out my cigarette in the overpriced ash tray, I turn and push myself up onto my knees to peer down to the eerie landscape far, far below. A faint, red glow shines through from cracks in the ground; from this high up, they almost look like veins. The craggy patchwork continues on for as far as the eye can see. I don’t care for it much, but up above… it takes my breath away every time I turn my face up to the heavens. A kaleidoscope of chaos; stars and space matter swirling in mysterious rhythms on an infinite canvas. Occasional ribbons of coloured light that snake across the inky backdrop, almost like an oil slick on the surface of dark water.

  
    It reminds me… “Hrm.”

  
It reminds me…

  
Less stars, now; a narrow strip of night sky framed by faded brick walls. An ugly, white face looms like the moon above me. 

  
“You a fag now, Rasputin?” The question is punctuated with his fist. “You come here to suck dick?”

  
I look up at the stars. He punches like a little bitch; I don’t even taste blood yet. I just want him to leave. I wonder if this is what a woman feels like, after he pays her to fuck him. For all his big-shot gold chains, he couldn’t afford any women around here. The gentleman's club is very exclusive. 

  
He pulls me off the ground by my singlet. “Huh?! Answer me!”

  
“Fuck off, Vasily,” I sneer. “I’m busy.”

  
As he pulls back with elbow armed with a clenched fist, the red door in the alleyway suddenly opens. The click and flash of a cigarette lighter announces him; a beautiful man wearing thick-heeled boots which lead up to long legs clad in leather pants.The fabric of his top I something I have never seen; it shimmers where it catches the light yet it’s so fine that it ripples like water where it hangs from his bare neck. I think, if it rained, the drops would melt the fabric away from his body like spider’s web. He lights up his cigarette before he casts his gaze upon us, his smoky eyes narrowed. “I told you not to come around here.”

  
Vasily freezes. His eyes widen and contort between anger and fear. “You!”

  
The tall man clicks his tongue and turns his head back to the doorway. “ _ Dmitri! _ ” he barks.

  
I fall back to the ground as Vasily drops me, grimacing as I watch him flee the alley. Bitch-boy. I have fists, but I know that this ‘Dmitri’ carries a gun. It’s a fight that Vasily cannot win. Still… I spit on the ground and turn my head back to the door. No one comes. He drops down to a squat as he watches him run and his grin confirms my suspicion that Dmitri was never there at all.

  
I scrape myself off the ground and crawl to the bottom of the steps leading up to the club’s back door. I take a seat at the bottom of them and lean against the railing with a quiet groan. It hurts when I stretch my jaw, but at least the swelling won’t last as long as the bruises.

  
“You bring shit to my door now, Rasputin?” He asks me.

  
“He followed me,” I grouse, taking the burning cigarette from his fingers when he offers it to me. The smoke burns my throat. Cloves. I force it out of my lungs and hand it back with a grunt.

  
“What do you want, Rasputin?” He asks me with a sigh. “You don’t like to come around here unless there is something you need.”

  
“Ladislav Biskup.” I say. The sounds feel heavy, like some kind of grim incantation.

  
He raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Biskup? He is a client of ours. No class but big money. You should not even know his name.”

  
“I know,” I wrinkle my nose. “I need the cell phone.”

  
“A cell phone?” He furrows his brow. “I tried to give you a cell phone; you said no. What makes you want one now?!”

  
“ _ Biskup’s _ cell phone,” I specify with gritted teeth.

  
His bark of laughter is drenched in disbelief. “Why?” he demands. “You want to be a crook, now? Are you sick of sweeping floors? I can  _ get  _ you work. Let me!”

  
“No.”

  
He stubs out his cigarette and rises back up on his feet. From where I am sitting, he seems taller than life. “Go home then, Rasputin,” he frowns. “I will not sell out my client for your big mystery.”

  
“Fine.” I turn my gaze back to the stars. It was worth a shot. “I’ll find some other way.”

  
His smell lingers even after the doors closes. I had thought it was the stars, but it was the smoke. Cloves. 

  
It reminds me…

  
The cigarette smoke. Blinking hard as I snap out of it, I grip the balcony railing as I try to put pieces of the memory together. Could they really be the same person? I study him over my shoulder. Tall? Yes. He has the same glamorous angles in his cheeks and forehead, but there are other aspects of his face that have changed. His teeth are too large; they push out his jaw and give him a pout, and dark eyebrows that were once strictly manicured have grown thick again. And those eyes; those godforsaken, red-black eyes… beastly, but... it could be him. What made him like this?

  
“What is it?” he scowls, growing tired of my staring.

  
“You look different.” I say.

  
He raises his eyebrows, taken aback. He watches my expression with something close to suspicion as I turn to face him. When he doesn’t find what he was looking for (Ridicule? Fear?) he lowers his gaze with a frown. “Some disfigurement is to be expected,” he explains gruffly. “It is a small price to pay for freedom.”

  
“Freedom?” I quirk my eyebrows. “From what?”

  
He looks away with a sigh and stubs out his cigarette. “Of course you wouldn’t get it.”

  
I watch as he rises to his feet and steps back inside the apartment. I can see my reflection in the sliding glass door when he shuts it behind him, and I blink stupidly at myself. I can hear quiet, rumbling melodies that fill the nighttime atmosphere but it doesn’t do much to help me think. Freedom from what, exactly?


	9. King of the Cul de Sac

I could be in school. It would be… what, senior year? It’s hard to keep track. The truant officer has not come for me since I turned sixteen. He never knew how to speak to my parents, anyway. They pretend not to speak English when anyone in uniform is around.

  
Here in this cove of broken-down apartment buildings tacked onto the end of an immigrant city, I know peace. I come here, outside, to soak up sunshine and rest my eyes while the world is still close to quiet. No screaming babies, no drunken crowds; not yet. The old ones are at work and the young ones are at school (mostly).

  
I could be in school.The real question is, do I want to eat? On the outskirts of Little Italy there is food that is almost free; if I sweep floors or stack boxes, they give it to me. No more dumpster diving. See? I learn. No more algebra for me.

  
The afternoon sun casts a faint glow on everything; from the crumbling steps where I sit, all the way to the heap of trash cans at the end of the street. There is a light and rhythmic sound; steady, like a heartbeat. If I lift my head, I can see. Small black shoes on small socked feet. A little neighbourhood girl. She wears a red dress. There are boxes drawn on the sidewalk in chalk. I don’t know the game, but the skipping is soothing to me.

  
The road is not much wider than a single lane. When the van rumbles past her and picks up speed, I blink, and she is gone. Like a whiteboard eraser, they take her. I am running; stumbling over my own feet in the chase - my knuckles turn bloody where they scrape between brick and baseball but I don’t let go. I run with it like a baton, blood pounding in my ears. The van swerves up onto the kerb when it makes the turn then takes off with a squeal. By the time I reach the next block, it is gone without a trace. All that is left is a helpless agony.

  
“ _ Hey, bitch-boy! Why are you running?! _ ”

  
A second later, he collides with me. For the briefest moment, he clings, his hands scrabbling at my threadbare singlet.

  
I grab his shoulders tightly without thinking; the hand carrying the bat presses against his shirt in a closed fist and stains the crisp, white linen with my blood. “Did you see?” I hiss. “Did you  _ see _ ?!”

  
He is confused and panting even harder than me. Shaking his head, he seems to pull away and stay close at the same time. “Help me,” he gasps.

  
Gritting my teeth, I turn my head to the road from where he came. The thugs who chase him skid to a halt and balk. I hear one of them hiss, “ _ Shit!  _ It’s Rasputin!”

  
My eyes narrow as my breathing slows. I would laugh if my lungs would let me. I know these three, and they know me. Mario, Lenkov, and Vasily. They know not to cause trouble for me. I know that they are all chickenshit. 

  
“K-kick his ass, Rasputin!” One of them calls out with a half-hearted laugh.

  
That was a bad move. I do not like being told what to do. Keeping eye contact, I make a slow and deliberate show of slinging my bat across my shoulders before I take the boy's hand and lead him back around the corner to the seclusion of an alley.

  
As he shrinks back against the brick wall, I can only stare. His clothes are far too nice for him to be from around here. There is only one person he could be, but this is the first time I have ever seen him. I’ve grown up hearing the gossip about the rich woman who still sets foot in the slums. Her name is Katarina, and they say she scouts the neighbourhood for young women to groom into whores. This must be her fabled son. It was stupid to leave him out in the street without a bodyguard. Although, now that I look at him closely, he seems too old to be such a sissy. My, age maybe; that would make sense if his mother had him shipped off to some fancy boarding school until now. It is hard to tell when he is so skinny. His big, brown eyes look at me from behind a veil of dark hair. 

  
“Your mother is the whoremaster, yes?” I ask frankly with a tilt of my head. “You have money?”

  
He shrinks in the same way that we all do when asked; it doesn’t matter how rich you are, you always shrink when it comes to money.

  
“I am not going to rob you,” I chuckle, holding out my hand. “I am hungry. Pay me.”

  
He thinks I am mad; I can see it on his face. That is okay. I am mad. I’m angry. I would be lying if I said that I did not want to throw myself into something; anything. He keeps a careful eye on me as he reaches into the back pocket of his trousers (trousers! Not even jeans!) and pulls out a fresh twenty. He presses it into my palm slowly, like maybe my hand might turn into a bear trap or something.

  
Smiling, I stick it into my pocket and then adjust my grip on the bat slung across my shoulders. This money is a lot of food for me. If I do a good job, perhaps there will be more. “Hey, Vasily!” I call out loud, stepping out of the alley and striding towards them.

  
He is the largest of the three. They have already stopped to have a smoke. When he turns, I see the cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. 

  
I could make it a warning; knock it clean onto the ground… but I am not that kind of guy. “You cause trouble for me?!”  

  
“R-rasputin, I--”

  
The bat connects hard with his jaw and he goes down. The others have already started running. When he raises his arms to protect his face and curls over, this exposes the back of his ribs. Raising the bat above my head, I hit him four more times before I drag him up off the ground by his shitty tracksuit jacket.

  
“We didn’t know,” he snivels.

  
“You know me, Vasily,” I warn him, leaning forward. “I am always hungry. He feeds me now, you understand?”

  
A petrified nod. I let him drop and wipe the sweat from my brow as I watch him run.

  
I should probably smile when I turn back to the kid, but I can’t. His mouth is hanging open, but at least he hasn’t run away. “He should not give you any more trouble,” I say. “Maybe pay me again sometime just to make sure, yes?” 

  
My smile still doesn’t come, but his does - just a small twitch on the right side.

  
“What is your name, kid?” I ask him.

  
He hooks a lock of hair behind his hair. “It’s…”

  
I wake up with a gasp. “Solt.” I sit upright. I am alone in the bed. Everything is lit in the same dim, blue light as it is every other night. I’m not sure if it has ever been day. I stagger out of the bedroom with my heart still racing. Solt… Solt! I had known him for so long. How could I have forgotten?

  
There is a golden glow coming from cracks around a door on the other side of the apartment. The study. He goes in there sometimes. I take a deep breath and push the door open. "Ss--" The name dies in my throat. The gasp pushes out of me almost painfully. I can feel my chest ache.

  
“Rasputin?” He looks up from the chair where he is reading, but that is not what I see. There, on the wall; a huge, black, archer’s bow. The limbs are plated with something spiny that reminds me of his wings.

  
Black shapes. A black  _ shaft _ , sticking out of me. “You shot me.” I say.

  
“Rasputin--”

  
“ _ You shot me! _ ”


	10. Betrayal

He _shot_ me! I slam the bathroom door behind me and turn the lock. Leaning back against the wood, my heart pounds in my chest and I can hear my own pulse. I lurch forward to the sink, running the water cold and splashing some on my face. It doesn’t help to make it stop. The visions are heavy and unforgiving; the memories run through my mind without restraint.

  
    The blistered ground. A face like mine; they shot him through the throat. I was not so lucky; the black shaft sticking out of my chest pins me to the rock underneath. I can’t move. It is getting difficult to breathe.

  
    Nothing prepared me for the this feeling. Oh God; oh God, forgive me! My eyes bleary, my voice hoarse from screaming, I can just make out the terrible crunch of gravel underneath boots over the roar of the battlefield that stretches for miles. The footsteps are getting closer. I struggle to sit upwards and am punished by the feeling, the terrible, soul-shaking feeling, of sliding an inch up the arrow shaft before I fall back down, forearm over my eyes hide the tears.

  
    The footsteps stop and even with my eyes covered, I can tell he looms over me. I shift my arms just enough to make him out: a demon; a soldier, with his face obscured by a visor. A gurgle rises in my throat like blood from the wound. He leans down. The fingers of his gauntlets curl like insects when he grips the arrow. “Does it hurt?” he asks in a voice so tender that it makes my skin crawl.  

  
    No; not so much anymore, and that's what scares me. But I know what he means. I grit my teeth and I nod but that’s not what he wants. The arrow twists and I cry out, hand flying to his wrist, too weak to stop it.

 

    “ _YES!_ ” I scream, helpless; angry.

 

    “... Hey.”

 

    The small muttering, a tiny reply to my agony, jolts me back into the present. I can still hear my own scream echoing in my ears. When I open my eyes I see that the surface of the mirror is flecked with my spit. Gasping, I hunch over and fight the urge to shove my fingers down my throat, as if the vomit could somehow purify me. I rip my singlet instead, letting the cloth slip down my arms and fall to the ground as lean over the bathroom counter and examine my chest. The wound is just another scar now, but I remember. Turning around, my breathing turns shallow as I make out the ragged mark from the exit wound on my back. The scar tissue interrupts the faded blue lines of the tattooed wings. I reach back and paw at the base of my neck with a whimper. I feel like I have lost something, like I am empty. What happened to me?!

  
    “Rasputin.” He appears. There was never any need to open the door. It was pointless to lock it.

  
    I flinch and turn back to the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink. Right now I can only bear to face him through the reflection. Solt. Are we friends, really? I remember arguing… No, please, not another memory...

  
    “You’re in with the Petrovs now?! I had to tell my men not to shoot you on sight!”

  
    He’s cornered me in some alley. I should be angry that I was found so easily, but all I am is annoyed. If I had a man like Dmitri, I’d find people a lot more quickly.

  
    “It is something I need to do,” I sneer, defensive. “Does it make me your enemy?”

  
    “How can I know what you are to me?” he snaps, gesturing wildly with one hand. I can see nearly all of his teeth. “You don’t tell _anyone_ what you are doing! Every day it another thing - you think I don’t keep tabs on you? Are you crazy?!”

  
    “Maybe.” I grouse. “But also busy.”

  
    “Busy?” he coughs, grabbing me by the lapels of my grubby denim jacket. “Busy?! Biskup is _dead!_ His whole crew, dead! _”_

 _  
_ Shit! Biskup? This is news to me, but I keep my mouth shut. “Not my problem,” I sniff. “It was not me.”

  
    “Bullshit!”

  
    “Fuck you!”

  
    “Fuck me? Go fuck yourself!”

  
    … Ugh. I hate this. The memories feel queasy, like a fever dream. A hand on my shoulder startles me but the argument still echoes in my head. I steal a glance at his face and it stings. The worst part about it is his eyes hold nothing but pity. I know the expression well. It is the same way that he looked at me on that day. “Don’t touch me,” I say, but the words come out weak.

  
    “Do you really think--” he falters. “If I had known… If I had seen…”

  
    “You shot me,” I repeat. I let my shoulder relax but it is not because my guard is down. I am just hollow, now.

  
    “I did,” he whispers.

  
    It doesn’t give me any satisfaction to hear him admit it. But then…

  
    “I’m sorry.”

  
    I inhale sharply through my nose. It hurts. It hurts to feel anything. Gritting my teeth, I hunch forward again, wanting to expel words that won’t come. When the hand on my shoulder guides me, I want to punch myself for accepting his embrace.   
    “We all end up on the battlefield sooner or later,” he explains quietly. “The white ones… they show up all the time. And I was so angry…”

  
    Sniffing, I open my eyes a fraction and listen.

  
    “I didn’t know until I touched you… you all looked the same. But up close, when I looked down to pull the arrow out--”

  
    I flinch at the memory.

  
    “--Once I saw your face… you looked exactly like…”

  
    My eyes gain focus as they slide back to the mirror. He looks shell shocked, even as he holds me. With a frown, I straighten my back and look up at him. I swallow before I speak to make sure the question doesn’t waver. “Like what?”

  
    “Like you did on the day that you died.”


	11. Whore

The day I died… I don’t remember much, but of course it must have happened. I remember the sound of breaking glass; the kind that shatters all at once into tiny, blunt pieces. They crumbled down around my boots like snow. It was night, I think. There were stars, just like crystals. The sensation of passing out is easy to recall, but I don’t remember what actually _killed_ me.

  
    Standing together in the bathroom, I grab him above the elbows and hold him at arm's length. “How did I die?” I ask urgently.

  
    “I don’t want to tell you.” He frowns.

  
    “Tell me,” I insist.

  
    “I said _no_ ,” he growls, baring his front teeth. He twists away from the grip but I keep hold. “Let go of me!”

  
    I am growing impatient. “Solt!” I snap, gripping his elbows more tightly.

  
    After a moment, his eyes go wide as he realises I said his name. A small sound escapes him, more breath than voice, so it is hard it hear. His lips move, twisting with the beginning of a word before they press together and grow still again. He closes his eyes with a furrowed brow. “No,” he finally pushes the word out, taking a deep breath before he speaks more firmly. “I don’t want to tell you.”

  
    The sadness in his expression makes me grit my teeth. With a frustrated snarl, I let go and shove his chest, turning away and storming out of the bathroom. “Fucking… bitch-boy,” I curse under my breath.

  
    His gob-smacked silence lasts all of three seconds before his temper rises. “What was that?” he calls after me in a warning tone, following me out into the living room.

  
    “I said your mother was a whore!” I round on him, balling my fists.

  
    Scoffing, he wrinkles his nose. “I was a whore too, you know. Or do you only remember my name?”

  
    I flinch. “Don’t--”

  
    “Please. What is it now, Rasputin?” he complains, leaning back against the door frame. “Are you angry you don’t get your way, or just too stupid to remember why my family was so rich?”

  
    “Shut up.”

 

“What, you liked it, didn’t you?” he snaps, clapping a hand over his bare stomach. “That stupid piercing, you remember that before my name!”

  
    “Shut up!” I growl.

  
    He pauses for a moment, mulling the words over in his head before he lets them out. “Are you jealous?” he asks.

  
    Yelling, I have him pinned up against the wall before I realise what I am doing. It is only when my fist is drawn back (like an arrow string) that I freeze. No. I don’t want to hurt him. I want…

  
    Ugh. I haven’t even frightened him. Perhaps this is what he was expecting. He tips his head back against the plaster, looking away with an empty laugh. “You won’t hit me, Rasputin,” he says. “You want to fuck me. It is not the same thing.”

  
    My throat feels hot. I lower my fist and clutch it to my chest. “Y-you…” I struggle to get the words out as the heat spreads across my cheeks. A pang of shame, maybe. “How did you…?”

  
    He sighs. “Of all the people who could tell, why wouldn’t it be me? I did not even need to seduce you.”

  
    My skin prickles and my heart sinks, whipping my memories up into a frenzy. It makes me sick to think that what he is saying is true. It’s all true.

  
    I don’t remember exactly when the feelings came. Not on the first day. Sometime between then and that night in the alley, when a crescent of his pale chest shone beneath the collar of some designer-whatever. When we had breakfast together at 3AM and he sipped his orange juice through a straw with bruised and swollen lips. He laughed for me. He held an ice block against my cheek, right there on that sofa. He fed me when I was hungry. He...

    I startle. I’m not sure how long I was staring.

  
    “Solt,” I say softly. There are so many things I want to say. The worst thing, I think, is that he makes it sound cheap. I don’t feel for him cheaply! How could he think so low of me?

  
    He stares at me for a moment before he winces and averts his eyes. “Do you really want to know?” he asks, hooking a lock of hair behind his ear.

  
    I blink. “What?”

  
    “How you died.”

  
    I never took my eyes off him. When he finally meets my gaze again, he is frowning. Or perhaps ‘frowning’ is not the right word; whatever it is, it is difficult - that much I can see.

  
    “Yes.” I want to know. I deserve to know what happened to me.

  
    He sighs, his eyes darting away again even as he reaches out to take my face in his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Fine.”

  
    My heart skips a beat and for a second, I hope (no) think that he is going to kiss me, but then he presses his forehead to mine.

  
    “W-what are you doing?” I stammer.

  
    “It is fine,” he says again, closing his eyes. I feel his breath against my face. “Just let it happen.”

  
    I remember once, he washed me, just as I had once washed him. In the shower standing just a few feet away, he rinsed the blood from my hair just as I had rinsed vomit from his. I trust him, and I breathe in. When I do, it feels like my soul is leaving my body. In a way, it’s easier than recalling my own past; this way feels distant and dreamy. It feels like… I hate to say it, but it feels like dying.  

  
    Just as I think that I cannot die twice, I open my eyes and find myself in the back of a car with leather seats. Dmitri is driving; I see the back of his shaved head lit on-and-off by passing street lights. Solt is in the back, alone. I have no body. Even when I glance down and go through the motions to look at my own hands, there is just nothing there. It is a bizarre feeling but I don’t have time to dwell on it because Solt is moving.

 

    This car has expensive leather seats but he does not recline them, in fact he barely sits back at all. His hands, thinner and cleaner than mine (manicured, maybe) drop an object onto his lap and clench anxiously at his knees, making his leather pants creak. I want to take those hands in mine, make it stop, but I can’t. I cry out without a sound. What is happening?! Completely mute, I start to tremble, the vision turning blurry.

 

    _Relax,_ he tells me. I hear it in my head like the word of God and it makes me freeze. _Breathe_.

 

    Hands scoop up the object, a pager, and hold it once again. Once I breathe in, slowly, the rattling stops and sound blooms back into the scene. We are still driving.

 

    “Relax,” says Dmitri. “He is probably just drunk in some alley.”

 

    What an asshole. I don’t drink.

 

    “He doesn’t drink.” The curt reply comes.

  
    Everything I am seeing is what he has seen.

 

    I am in Solt’s memory.


	12. TV Static

The message on the pager screen reads: PIKUP CRNR 15TH ITALY. He’s checked it maybe ten times now. I remember sending messages like this. I never let him buy me a phone, but if I had known that it was like this, then maybe I would have felt guilty. Still, it’s too late now. Too late to make a difference.

 

It feels strange to be in Solt’s memory. I still have my own thoughts and feelings, but to see everything through his eyes is bizarre. There are things Solt has done that I have no interest in seeing. I already feel...uneasy, at the thought of him seeing me.

 

“We’re almost there,” says Dmitri.

 

“I know,” Solt points out dryly. “I grew up playing in these streets.”

 

“These streets are too narrow,” Dmitri complains. “There’s nowhere to park.”

 

The pager beeps. A new message from me: DONT COME.

 

Oh, no.

 

“Solt?! Shit!” Dmitri swears as Solt scrambles out the car door. He slams on the brakes but it’s too late; Solt has already tumbled into the street and started running. It’s faster to cut through the alleys.

 

Stupid! It was stupid of me. I didn’t want him to see. Solt… no, please… Don’t you remember those steps instead? We ate apples there! I asked you why you were wearing a scarf in summer and when you said you had hickeys, I called you a pussy. I didn’t know, then! You laughed, but did you find it funny? Did I hurt you? D-did--

 

I try to hold him to the memory but my grip stretches thin and snaps like chewing gum as Solt keeps running. I can’t stop it now; all I can do is watch it play out.

 

There was an old electronics store on the corner of 15th. I used to watch the TV screens in the shop window. That’s why I picked the spot for pickup. It looks like an altar, now. Some of the screens are dark and others crackle with static which lights the pavement in a dim, flickering glow. The blue light makes the dark shape slowly spreading across my chest seem almost purple.

 

“ _ RASPUTIN! _ ”

 

The scream shakes me. It rings around the street and Dmitri tackles him before he can get to me. Their wrestling is so violent that I take a step back even though I can’t be hit. Solt grunts as he gets one arm free, wheeling around and striking the man across his face.

 

“Don’t  _ touch  _ me!”

 

Dmitri bares his teeth but he takes the blow, even though there is already a welt raising above the line of his beard. He is paid very well. Raising his palms, he backs off and lets Solt approach my body.

 

I hear the crunch of crumbled glass as he kneels beside me. His hand goes to my throat but I can already tell he’s not going to find a pulse. I don’t think Solt has ever seen a dead body. I can tell that there’s no life left in those blue eyes of mine. Eyes die first; still and glassy. They shot me right in the chest. Bastards. At least I didn’t go out without a fight; my baseball bat is laying beside my head.

 

Solt’s vision becomes blurry with tears as he places a palm on my forehead and closes my eyes. With trembling hands, he lifts my fist away from my chest and opens bloody fingers to retrieve the pager from my hand.

 

_ DONT COME _

 

“Are you crazy?!” Dmitri pulls at his elbow. “This is crime scene!”

 

“No, it’s not,” Solt snaps bitterly, yanking his elbow back with a sniff. “No one calls the cops around here. Call the cleanup crew; I don’t care what it costs.”

 

“Seriously? He is nobody!”

 

Solt’s hand grips mine tightly. The silence should scare Dmitri, if he is smart. After a few moments I hear the faint chirrup of a speed dial as he steps away to make the call.

 

I watch as the tremor returns to Solt’s other hand as he pockets the pager, then presses his palm against my chest.

 

I don’t want to think about what he is feeling, so I focus on all the other things instead. The bullet wound; the stain is huge, but the hole is small. Point-blank range. They must have missed a couple times; it explains the shot-out TV screens. It would have been a small pistol. Size doesn’t matter shit if you get shot through the lung. There’s so much blood. It must have nicked uhh… artery.

 

If… if they followed me, uh…

 

His crying is getting harder to ignore.

 

“Rasputin,” he whimpers.

 

Solt. Stupid... I told you not to come.

 

He curls over and buries his head in my neck. The world grows dark as he closes his eyes but the sound just gets louder.

 

“I’m s-orry,” he hiccups.

 

Wet. It feels wet. “Shut up,” I whisper, shaking my head. I open my eyes in surprise when a quiet sob feels like it is pulling at my breath. I don’t get a chance to look at him; he pulls me to his chest and buries his tear-stained cheeks in my hair.

 

“I told you not to come,” I croak stupidly.

 

“You left me,” he whimpers. The sadness in his voice stings.

 

“I didn’t--” I try to to shake my head but he is holding me too tightly. Wriggling away, I put my hands on his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to,” I frown, holding his gaze. “They must have followed me.”

 

“But from where?”

 

“Uh…” I want to say a bad part of town, but that wouldn’t help. Every part of that city was rotten, from the slum where I grew up to the glitz of Solt’s whorehouse club.

 

He look at me incredulously. “You still don’t remember?!”

 

“I am trying!” I growl, rubbing the skin between my eyebrows. “It hurts.”

 

Solt grits his teeth and turns his head away. “Disgusting.”

 

It feels like the floor falls out from under me. Does he mean me?!

 

“Not you,” he shakes his head quickly, gripping his elbow. “This…  _ ‘holy’ _ .” Wrinkling his nose, he gestures with one hand as he says the word.

 

“What do you mean?” I ask him, disturbed.

 

“I died too, Rasputin,” he reminds me sternly. “I remember everything. What do you think is the difference between you and me?”

 

I hesitate. It could be one of a hundred things. The clothes, the drink, the money. I am stronger, but Solt was always more powerful. Kinder too, I think; at least to me. “Uh…”

 

Solt sighs. “When you died,” he asks, “What did you see?”

 

_ Holy. _

 

I blink. I have dim memories of a pure, white light; of humming. There was a sound in my head that rose and swelled, changing in pitch like a deep whale song. Like a language, maybe; I hear faint echoes of it, even now. And there were stars. How am I supposed to make any sense of it now?

 

My first instinct is to laugh. “No,” I say, looking to Solt with an uncertain smile. “You can’t be saying--” My smile fades as I see the serious look in his hooded eyes and I realise I am surrounded by the black lattice of his wings. “There’s no way.”

 

“Holy,” he tells me.

 

No. Not me. Even after death, I killed so many.

 

“When I shot you, you had white wings."

 

... Really?


	13. The Holy Din

_ Holy. _

 

The thought stays with me. How can I be holy?

 

We went to bed and although the gentle rise and fall of his chest against my cheek is soothing, I don’t sleep. I don’t need to sleep; not really. I don’t think it would make much difference; it would be  _ ‘holy’  _  from the moment I shut my eyes and then as soon as I awoke--

 

_ Holy _ .

 

There a whispers that cling to the edges of the word; other voices that I can't quite make out. It’s like a curse. Is this what he meant by the holy being disgusting? How could I hear or see anything when all there is in my head is this wretched--

 

_ Holy _ .

 

I swear out loud and Solt’s chest rises as he takes his waking breath. Shit. I look up at him as he looks down his nose at me.

 

“It doesn’t stop,” I grit my teeth.

 

“What does?”

 

The moment I try to focus on the relentless hammering of ‘ _ holy _ ’ it falls apart into a sloppy composition of shapes and sounds which don’t make sense. I grunt and sit up on the bed. “What do you think?”

 

He loops an arm behind his head and brings his glossy hair over one shoulder. “It’s better than it used to be.”

 

“What do you mean?” I squint.

 

He clicks his tongue at me. “You think I just left you out there on the battlefield? I brought you back here to stop the bleeding. You used to  _ scream _ . That’s why I figured out how to make you sleep.”

 

I suppose I should be less shocked that I remember nothing. It would explain why the room where he first kept me felt faintly familiar, like a dream. Yet... it doesn’t make sense. I know I wasn’t always here. I  _ remember  _ the market and the men who bought me.

 

Unless…

 

The hook in the ceiling. Stupid. He should have used a D-ring.

 

“I escaped?” It’s not really a question.

 

“You did,” he chuckles with a tight smile. “It was on a night that I was drinking. You were like an alien to me. I had begun to wonder if you were real or if you were just some kind of suffering I had made without realising.”

 

This is not the first time he has talked about making things but but still sounds strange to me. Maybe I am just jealous. “I didn’t know you could make things so casually,” I comment, rubbing at the back of my neck.

 

“I wouldn’t call it casual,” he smiles as he climbs out of the bed and paces towards the bathroom. A green silk robe is bunched around his elbows, patterned with pink and white roses with golden embroidery. He turns to face me and suddenly it is gone; he is bare chested, wearing heeled boots and tight, black jeans. A black diamond glints at his navel.

 

I blink. "How did you do that?" He chuckles at my confusion.

 

“The thing you have to understand about this place,” Solt says, “Is that you are only as free as you believe. There are souls down in the pit who wear crowns of barbed wire and get beaten every day because that is what they think they deserve. Yet others… well, they carry on with the same kind of debauchery that they always did, and they are happy.”

 

“The market.” My eyes dart away at the memory. Of course.

 

“Yes, exactly. In hell, there are infinite ways for the strong to prey upon the weak.”

 

I scowl. “I am not weak,” I object, jutting out my chin.

 

“I didn’t say that.” Solt strides to the edge of the bed. In his boots, he all but towers over me, especially while I am sitting. His stern face softens into a smile, teasing. “I will say you are an asshole, though. You certainly did not make finding you easy.”

 

“Hrm.” Grumbling, I duck out from under his gaze and clamber out of the bed. So I escaped from here, then went back out into the wastes with no sound mind or memory. It makes sense that I would have killed the first person who tried to ‘prey’ on me. I have to bite back a chuckle at the thought. Instead, I try hard to change the silk pyjama pants I am wearing. No matter how hard I focus, nothing happens.

 

“So, why can’t I make things?” I complain.

 

“That’s easy,” Solt scoffs. “You still aren’t free.”

 

_ Holy-holy _ .

 

“Shit!” I curse. “That is bullshit! I didn’t want this!”

 

“You did,” Solt says solemnly. “I’ve met people who chose not be holy. It’s not something you can be forced into being.”

 

“Then they lied to me,” I blurt with a grimace. Solt was right; it is disgusting. I never would have chosen  _ ‘holy’  _ if I had known what it would do to me.

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Solt sighs. “But there is nothing you can about it now. Just let me clothe you. What is it that you want? Singlet? Jeans?”

 

I blow air out of the side of my cheek. I don’t want them so badly if Solt has to give them to me.

 

“Don’t be such a baby.” His height drops a few inches as he faces me. His boots are gone; leaving bare feet. I get the feeling that he is starting to show off.

 

“Jeans,” I sulk. I don’t feel like covering my tattoos.

 

He smiles with his eyes as he hands the bundle of denim to me. It appeared in his hands as quick as blinking. I take them to the edge of the bed to change. They are faded and ripped; like the pair I used to own, just not as dirty. Pulling up my zipper, I startle as I feel his arms around me.

 

“You  _ hate  _ being kept, don’t you?” he teases me.

 

For a moment I am distracted by the feeling of Solt’s palms upon my chest. After another second I pull away with a frown and colour in my cheeks. “Asshole,” I grumble.

 

Solt has never tried to seduce me. Never. We’ve kissed countless times, but that is not the same thing. A kiss can mean a hundred things. Turning to face him, I take a step back, wary. I know what he is capable of.

 

His smile becomes a grin. “Are you afraid of me, Rasputin?”

 

The question catches me off-guard. “No,” I snort.

 

“Really?” He arches an eyebrow. Reaching out, his lifts my chin with his fingers, stretching out my neck.

 

His mouth never touches me but I can imagine his tongue running along my exposed throat. Vividly. Swearing, I shrink backwards.

 

His smile turns smug. I would tell him ‘up yours’ but he might make a joke. “Shut up,” I say instead, shoving my hands into my pockets. I turn to leave. There is something infuriating about the way he gently grabs my wrists, pulling my hands free of my jeans.

 

“Let go of me,” I growl, but my words feel empty. I don’t move my feet.

 

“Stay with me,” he purrs into my ear.

 

For a moment, I forget to breathe and all thoughts leave me, even  _ ‘holy’ _ .

 

“Don’t you want to?”

 

    I do, but… I feel two different kinds of heat. One is sweet and intoxicating; the other is like a tight vice. I can hardly bear to look at him when he turns me around to face him. It’s embarrassing. I try to get outraged but the anger just isn’t coming. It’s Solt. How could I be angry?

 

“Well?” He steps closer.

 

I breathe in sharply. “S-shut up,” I fluster. “It’s not so easy for me.”

 

He emits a single chuckle. “I wonder why?” he drawls. “Mr. Holy; always looking, but never touching. I wonder…” He leans closer with a wicked grin. “Did you ever touch yourself and think of me?”

 

I choke out a cough and push him away, face burning. 

 

His cackling fills the room. “You did!” He shouts gleefully.

 

Gritting my teeth, I make for the door but he catches me, rolling me with him as he falls back onto the bed. He’s grinning from ear to ear and my heart is beating so fast it feels like it might break my ribs. Pushing against his chest, I sit up on his lap and try to climb off but he holds me fast by my hips.

 

“Bastard!” I hiss. “You’re enjoying this!”

 

His long fingers splay and adjust their grip. “No,” he counters with humour in his eyes. “I would enjoy it more if you were undressed.”

 

“We just  _ got  _ dressed!” I complain uselessly.

 

“It’s more fun this way.” he sniggers, tilting his head to one side.

 

“I don’t  _ want  _ it to be--” I falter. No; that’s not what I mean. I just don’t want him to laugh at me.

 

I’m not going to cry. I’m not a pussy. Still, the feeling takes my voice from me.

 

Blinking, he stare at me for a moment before he reaches out to cup my cheek. “What is it, Rasputin?” he asks, his other hand moving to the small of my back. When I don’t answer, he pulls me down to him, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You were always too serious,” he scolds me, nuzzling my ear.

 

“What choice did I have?” I grimace. “You know how it was. We didn’t all have big, bald bodyguards like Dmitri…”

 

“Don't remind me,” he chuckles dryly. When I don't join in joke, he lets out a sigh and my eyes widen when his fingers dip below the back of my jeans. His words are punctuated with slow, soothing kisses to the shell of my ear. “You are not in the streets any more, Rasputin," he reminds me. "No more Dmitri; no more Vasily. You don’t need to keep a reputation with me.”

 

His fingers push lower and he grabs a handful of my ass with both hands. A fraction of a laugh escapes me. “A-asshole,” I stammer. “Just where are you feeling?”

 

“Where do you think?” he smiles. “You won’t know how to do it right.”

 

“And you do?” I scoff automatically. He’s right, though; I don’t want to hurt him. It’s not a matter of pride, so why do I say these stupid things with him?

 

“Not all clients want to fuck me,“ Solt chuckles. “I have done a lot of things.”

 

I hadn’t considered that. I just thought that he had… with someone else…

 

“You’re really so surprised?” He raises his eyebrows, his lips spreading in a smirk. “You want stories?”

 

“No,” I say quickly. I frown and grip his shoulders. “No stories. I don’t want to hear about them when you're with me.”

 

I see his mouth open and I am scared of what he might say, so I close my eyes and gag him with a kiss.

 

“Ah--mm!” It startles him, I think, but he melts into it quickly. When his tongue meets mine he tastes… so good; it is hard to tell if it is a flavour or a feeling. Threading my fingers through his hair, I grunt and rock my body up against his as my jeans feel more and more uncomfortable.

 

His roaming hands gain purpose and push me up onto my knees. Straddling him, my breathing grows heavy when I see the thick bulge straining above his thigh. Me; he feels that for me. I bite my swollen lip as I reach out to touch it but he swats my hand away. Without warning, he grabs me by the hips, hauls me to one side and climbs out from under me.

 

“Shall we make our own story, Rasputin?” he chuckles to me, pulling me in close from behind and nipping at the shell of my ear. “You can be my inmate and I can be  _ politsiya _ ?”

 

    I have to laugh at the way he speaks to me. “Not sexy at all,” I scold him, trying to look over my shoulder.

 

    Fast! I didn’t know any man or demon could unzip a fly so quickly! His hand is already down the front of my jeans. When he nibbles at my neck from behind and tugs at my hard cock through my underwear, suddenly I do not care what he calls me. Dumbstruck, I arch back against him with a soundless moan and push my hips into his touch. When he undoes the button I gasp gratefully, then give a hiss as black talons rip away any remaining fabric and my cock bounces free.

 

    His grip is warm. I want to touch him! I want to stroke him like he strokes me. When I reach back to feel for the zipper of his jeans, he stops and squeezes tightly at the base of my dick. I freeze. After a moment, I swear I hear the subtle shift of spit between teeth and lip as he grins next to my ear. His hand moves again, slowly.

 

    “Fine,” I grumble, screwing my eyes shut as I throw up my hands in mock surrender. “Just don’t stop touching me.”

 

    He grins again, I think, and my breath hitches when something warm and slick pushes against my asshole.

 

    “Relax,” he tells me, voice husky. “Push out a little.”

 

    I do what he says and curse under my breath when his finger enters me. It barely hurts with just one but it is still a weird feeling.

 

    “You did this for a living?” I grimace.

 

    I yelp as he flicks the head of my cock with his thumbnail. I feel myself clench around his finger so tightly that he has to stop moving.

 

    “You said you did not want to talk about it.” I can hear the smirk dripping from his voice as he rubs his thumb over the smarting flesh. His thumb smears up some of the precum beading on the tip of my cock and makes it slick. I take a deep breath and relax my muscles again.

 

    “Maybe I forget with your hand inside me,” I grouse, panting.

 

    “My whole hand, is it now?” he remarks mildly, working a second finger in.

 

    I groan when he spreads them apart and closes them again, pushing in up to the knuckle. They curl and graze a spot inside me. I’ve heard about it but I didn’t know it could feel so sweet. It helps the hurting. With a grunt, I ball fists in the sheets and push back against his hand. “More,” I mutter.

 

    “Hmm?” he hums. Bastard. His fingers rub the spot in a tantalising circle and my elbows buckle out from under me.

 

    “Solt!” I plead, face mashed against the mattress. I let out a wail when his fingers leave me entirely, gasping as I am flipped onto my back.

 

    At some point he must have taken off his jeans completely, or maybe he just vanished them. I blink and realise that might are gone, too, and my heart skips a beat at the mirth glinting in his eyes behind rogue strands of hair. Even though those eyes are red, the expression is undeniably  _ Solt _ . It darkens into something hungry as he hooks his hands under my knees and pushes my legs up to show my feet to the ceiling.

 

    I hadn’t expected it to be like this. “You think I’m some woman?” I scoff, turning my head away. Still, I glance back at him quickly and wet my lips at the sight of his cock twitching below his diamond navel piercing.

 

    “I don’t like women, Rasputin,” he tells me with a smile. “I just wear their shoes to feel strong.”

 

     I huff out a nervous laugh. “Weirdo.”

 

    “You are weird too,” he murmurs. His breath tickles my ear when he leans down over me. “I like it.”

 

    I shiver, squirming against him as he guides the tip of his dick to my ass. His cock is much thicker than his fingers; it hurts even with the lube. When I cry out, he cups my cheek and swallows the sound. This kiss is harder; more desperate. I wrap my arms around his back as he plows deeper into me.

 

    Solt moans into my mouth and pulls back slightly. His pale face is flushed and framed by tresses of his long, dark hair.

 

    “More,” he gasps, breaking the delicate strand of spit connecting our mouths.

 

    “What?” I ask breathlessly, confused.

 

    He pushes his back up into my hands and gives his hips half a thrust. My breath hitches when I realise I had been digging my nails into his skin. I watch in wonder how his eyes flutter closed as I drag them down his spine. It sends a pang through me and I tangle my fingers through his hair and pull him back down with an urgent “Fuck me,” before our lips meet.

 

    I could never have imagined this. Those rare nights holed up in an alley with nothing but the palm of my hand did not prepare me for these feelings. Solt! The thick rod of his cock pushes against the spot over and over without mercy and the bedroom is a storm of grunting, moaning; panting. The heat of his body pressing against my thighs.

 

    I sink my teeth into his neck and use my hands to scratch and pinch every inch of him within reach; the pink caps of his nipples, the curve of his ribs, the soft expanse of skin above his kidneys. The sounds he makes in response, the pleading, keening whines even as he thrusts into me -- it all turns me on unbelievably.

 

    It gets faster and I want to cum so badly. I don’t think I could stop it if I tried. My cock leaks against my stomach and the tightness of our kiss sends my head swooning. Colours swirl across my vision like a tunnel and when the pulsing overcomes me, they bleed out into a bright, white light. The gasp of air comes after the first shot of cum across of chest and all I can do is struggle to breathe and paw blindly at his hair while the feeling takes me. At some point he buckles forward and the thrusting stops, shoved into me right up to the hilt as the weight of his body pushes me into the mattress. His lips find my ear and in my delirium I am treated to his stuttered, tenor moan as Solt cums inside me.

 

    I’ll remember that sound forever, I think. 

 

     Breathing now; weary but gentle. He kisses the bone of my cheek and guides one of my knees out from under him, rolling me onto my side. I hear his breathe hitch and mine does too as his cock shifts inside me but a hand around my stomach keeps me close. He buries his face into the crook of my shoulder, his long, graceful body curled around me with such warmth. Who needs blankets when you have this? I think to say it but my lips won’t move. No matter. I close my eyes and let sleep take me. 


	14. Into the Light

It's dark. Quiet. I hear radio static, I think. There is something important in my hand but I can’t quite hold onto it. I feel so... sleepy.

 

    The world turns black, like a dying TV screen. The last breath is so easy. I breathe out and I don't breathe back in. I want to close my hand but I don’t think I can, anymore. There is only the sound of the static. Wings, maybe. Footsteps. A kiss to my cheek.

  
    “Thank you.”

 

    Hm? Who would be saying such a thing to me? It can’t be her; the voice is too deep. And strange; kind of like singing. I can’t speak to ask who it is but at the same time, I don’t feel worried. Blind, I feel my sense of self pulled up off the ground and held close. The sensation of moving, once so strongly tied to gravity, begins to get lighter and lighter and I can feel myself drifting away from all things.

 

    I lose track of time. It is strange not to have a body. What will happen to me now? As I turn around to see where I am, I become aware that I can see at all. I am in a dark void surrounded by distant stars.

 

    Air creeps back into my lungs and it acts like a fuel; I sense movement and use it to turn around more quickly, whirling. There is nothing; just the void, maybe a flash so brief that I can’t be sure of it. I am reminded of light disappearing behind a closing door, but where could the door be? My outstretched fingers (long, white, glowing) touch nothing.

 

    I don’t know where I am.

 

    The realisation comes to me so slowly. Am I dreaming? Am I (my hand moves to my chest) dead?

 

    Thunder.

 

    I lift my head and look around, staring into the spot where I am sure the sound came from. When the rumble happens again it is everywhere; a harmony of voices who sing entirely in pitches and sounds. In the din, one meaning becomes clear:

 

    _RASPUTIN_.

 

    I gasp. Am I breathing again? I can see my own hands pressing insistently against my chest but I can’t quite process the sense of touch. Something is missing. Something red.

 

    A skipping sound. It’s the wrong pitch to be a heartbeat, and I don’t feel anything. Running my fingers through my hair, I curl in on myself before a force commands me to uncoil like a rod through my spine. My mouth opens in surprise as the feeling of _feeling_ returns to me.

 

    My closed fist pounds against my chest. The flesh is smooth and unmarked but I was shot there; shot, yes. They shot me. Yet I still feel at peace. Why?

 

    She smiles at me.

 

    A small shape from across the void but she might as well be right in front of me for I can see her face so clearly. It is etched into my memory.

 

    I did it.

 

    I did it, right? My life meant something!

 

    She turns up her palms and holds out her arms to me. Stumbling to run on air, I lurch towards her, full of this feeling. I think I am happy.

 

    Something holds me in one place and I don’t get any closer. Each distant star shines brighter and suddenly I understand that she isn’t really there. How could she be? She didn’t die like me. Still, I can’t stop smiling. My life _meant_ something.

 

    Laughing, I watch as the red of her dress burns so bright that it becomes white and her body disassembles into the series of shapes used to make this message for me. The wordless voices grow louder again and I find it easy to pluck out their meaning.

 

    _RAS-PU-TIN._

 

    What? What do you want from me? I… I can do it, I think. Yes. I can do anything.

 

    _LIFT_.

 

    What?

 

    A sense of _down_ suddenly floods me; a weighty feeling at the back of my head as I become acutely aware of something important waiting for me in the deep. There is nothing but sky and stars beneath my floating feet but the feeling does not change. The task is _down_ , and I must lift.

 

    I crouch, spreading out my fingers on an invisible ceiling. The void lurches and the whole world comes into focus, like magnifying glass on a movie screen. It’s amazing; there’s so many places; so much ocean. Tears well in my eyes. In all my life I had never even left the city. One measly city, and here there are mountains; forests, lakes. Vast, orange plains with wildebeest.

 

    And the people! So many; I see their fading faces; their hands reach up to me.

 

    _PLEASE_.

 

    I didn’t know so many people believed in being saved.

 

    _HELP ME_.

 

    Okay. Yes. Yes!

 

    _holy_

 

    I wake up with a gasp, covered in a cold sweat. Breathing deeply, I look around the dimly-lit room and a glow in the darkness catches my eye. The end of a cigarette.The profile of his face is highlighted in blue by the moonlight shining through the doorway.

 

    “You smoke indoors now?” I chuckle, reaching out for him. It’s fine, really; there are no smoke detectors here.

 

    He sniffs, and my hand stills. Why is he sad?

 

    “What’s wrong?” I ask.

 

    “It must be my fault,” he whimpers, looking over his shoulder at me.

 

    I sit up quickly. The bed creaks, and my back feels heavy. I feel the weight when I shift forward onto my hands and knees, and my eyes go wide. I look to Solt for answers but he says nothing. When I reach out to touch his face, my hand grazes against something soft in my periphery.

 

    Gasping, I clamber off the bed and rush into the bathroom, flicking the light switch.

 

    _Holy_.

 

    I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

 

    Four. Four feathered wings; not white but now a dirty grey. Ha… maybe now, they suit me.

 

    “I didn’t think they would come back,” Solt appears in the mirror’s reflection, shrinking back against the door frame. Gripping the elbow of the arm that holds his cigarette, his red eyes are shrouded in a veil of disheveled hair. “E-everything was fine, we fell asleep, but then...”

 

    “Holy,” I scoff in disbelief. I can move them, but only clumsily. Trying to fold them back is awkward when one set seems intent on wrapping in front of me. I whirl around the face him. “What does this mean?!”

 

I don’t know,” he admits in a whisper, a tear rolling down his cheek.

 

    “Why are you crying?” I tilt my head and reach out to him. He winces briefly, then lets me pull him close. He wipes his cheek on my hair.

 

    “I don’t want you to leave me,” he croaks.

 

    “Idiot,” I murmur softly, rubbing his jawline with my cheek. I say this, but I can hear the righteous harmony. It hums at the back of my mind, quickening my pulse yet not in a way that sends me into a panic. It focuses me, makes me serene. I think I might have to leave this place eventually. It is sad but it is true; this is not a place for me. I have a task. I have a purpose.

 

    _Holy_.


	15. Like Mother Like Son

I am in the room again.

 

Not chained or tied, this time; all I had to do was open the door. This mirror is bigger than the one in the bathroom and I need to look at myself.

 

I am slowly understanding how to move these wings. Stretching them out wide is a good feeling; it creates a gentle breeze which rustles the curtains on the wall. Looking over my shoulder with my back to the mirror, I can still make out the blue lines of my tattoos in the places where they are not obscured by feathers. I guess they do look silly, now; compared to the real thing. These real wings are huge; the largest set is easily the length of my body.

 

How did he manage to keep me, if I was wild and screaming, with these? Turning my head, I look to the centre of the room, beneath the hook in the ceiling. I think I can recall it, faintly. One wing bent and crumpled, the other flapping hard enough to flip and twist my body on the tiles. The very pulse of my blood burning because the task is  _ up  _ but I cannot fly with a broken wing. The broken voices filling my head with an incessant urgency that no longer makes sense to me. I am trapped, hurt and bleeding, and I don't see who tries to help me. So I  _ scream _ .

 

Perhaps I remember more than faintly.

 

Solt saw me like this, yet still he nursed me. I understand now, why he drinks. I would drink too if I saw this thing.

 

The click of heels on tiles catches my attention. Stilettos. He’s been on edge ever since I got my wings back.

 

I glance towards him and my lips twitch with a grimace. His hair is pulled up high in a ponytail. With the shoes and hair, he looks like his mother; even shirtless and in jeans. I keep my stance spread wide and shift my weight to the balls of my feet. Katarina was a fearsome woman and if he loses his temper, I do not like the idea of what those heels could do to me.

 

“Are you afraid of me now, Solt?” I question him.

 

“Just last night, you were the one who was afraid of me,” he scoffs. When he steps closer, I circle around him warily and keep my distance. He clenches his fists and bares his teeth.

 

“Don’t treat me like that!” he snaps.

 

“I will,” I say gamely, nodding to his feet before giving his hair a pointed stare. “Because right now you look more like Katarina than Solt, to me.”

 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror and startles. Gritting his teeth, all he has to do is  shake his head and then his hair falls down around his shoulders in loose curls. He drops in height as his bare feet touch the tiles, then he rises again (just a little) in his leather boots. Block heels. It is a good compromise. I step forward and let him touch me.

 

“You promise not to start screaming?” he asks, furrowing his brow as he runs his hand along one of the feathered bones.

 

“No,” I promise. “I don’t hear the voices. Only ‘holy’.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He frowns.

 

I peer at him. “The voices,” I say again. He must know them.

 

He emits a little laugh and shakes his head, staring at me with a confused smile.

 

I don’t know how to describe them. If he had ever heard them, I do not think that I would need to. It doesn’t make sense; he should have been lifted. “They didn’t come to you, once you were dead?” I ask.

 

The smile fades from his face and he looks away.

 

“Solt,” I say firmly, stepping closer.

 

    “Don’t look at me,” he whispers, shoulders stiff.

 

    I keep my eyes trained on his, searching for whatever secret they must be hiding. When I grab him by the shoulders, he flinches and the world shifts.

 

    It is different this time; it happens so suddenly. I don’t think he means for me to see this. I can’t move. I'm just an invisible peeping tom, stuck in one place. Like a ghost.

 

    It is a room with thick, plum carpeting and wooden paneling below fancy wallpaper. It could be one of the brothels or his family home; I don’t know. But I do know the woman Solt is watching apply eyeliner in the mirror of an antique vanity.

 

    Katarina. I have never seen her up close like this. Vasily always said he had a photo of her in a corset, but I never cared to see. Even in her forties, she looks like she could be a movie star. Long legs, good teeth and pointed heels. If she has any wrinkles, her makeup hides it well. Maybe Botox or even plastic surgery. Solt’s family could afford those things.

 

She must dye her hair. The dark brown locks have no hint of gray and they fall down perfectly straight from the knot that holds her ponytail into place. She sweeps it aside with a pearl-covered wrist and looks over her shoulder expectantly.

 

Solt sighs and stands to help her zip up the back of her black evening dress.

 

“I want to go out,” he says.

 

“If you want to play with your dog, that is fine,” she drawls.

 

Solt startles. "I--"

 

"Please," she scoffs, throwing a look over her shoulder as she twists the eyeliner closed. Her voice is deep and smooth but her words are hardened at the edges. “You think I don't know? If you want to waste time on a mutt, it's no problem. As long as you keep your appointments. But you will take Dmitri with you. The last thing we need is someone ransoming our family.”

 

“He’s not… he wouldn’t do that,” Solt mumbles, looking away.

 

I huff when I realise she is talking about me. Bitch. I try to keep quiet in case I disrupt the memory.

 

She turns, eyes narrowing as she reaches out for him. Her red-lacquered fingernails dig into Solt’s jaw as she pulls his gaze back to her face. “What did I say about keeping eye contact?” She scolds him. “And speak clearly!”

 

“He’s not. A dog.” Solt grinds out the words.

 

“Again,” she sneers.

 

    “He’s not a dog!” Solt yells, glaring. “Now let go of me!”

 

“Better.” The sneer fades and Katarina lets go of him, turning back to the vanity to pick up a smouldering cigarette in a long holder from where it leans against a pewter ash tray. “You will still take Dmitri.”

 

I am knocked out of the memory by the sound of Solt’s gasping. He falls backwards and I am barely able to catch him. We land on the tiles together, surrounded by my wings.

 

“W-what did you do!?” he accuses me.

 

“It wasn’t me!” I snap, but I can’t be so sure. If Solt did not let me in, I must have done something without knowing. “It wasn’t my fault!” I correct myself with a huff.

 

He breathes harshly behind grit teeth. “I don’t  _ want _ you to see it, Rasputin,” he tells me. “You’re always prying! So how can I believe you now?”

 

“Because I don’t lie to you,” I growl. “You know me!”

 

He turns away, pushing on the feathery wall of this cocoon I have made. I grit my teeth and make sure it does not budge. I grab his wrists to make sure he doesn’t just disappear.

 

“Let go of me!”

 

“No.” I narrow my eyes, pulling him close. He falls back against my chest. I can’t see his face, but I think right now that is what he prefers. I can still imagine his lips moving as he speaks.

 

“What do you want from me?” he whimpers.

 

“Information.” My lips curve with the memory of the word. I press my cheek to his ear. “What happened when you died? Tell me.”

 

The desperate breath he takes sends a shudder down his spine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Then let’s start at the beginning,” I compromise. I open my wings a fraction and let him lean back on me. Who knew that someone like me would ever try playing ‘therapy’. “What did you do after you found me?”

 

“I brought you here,” he sniffs.

 

“No, not that time.” I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his waist. “The time you found me shot in the street.”

 

“Oh,” he says faintly.

 

I can feel his breathing become slow and steady to match the pace set by me. The air around us seems to grow soft and I can no longer feel the tiles where I am sitting. “Let me in,” I murmur.  

 

We breathe in deeply.


	16. A Family's Blessing

I know this mottled wallpaper. Glancing at Solt’s human form, I make the snide accusation in my mind.

 

_ You went into my apartment. _

 

_ Of course I did _ , I hear Solt’s retort clearly in my head.  _ What did you expect? _

 

I grunt and let the memory play out. There’s no changing it now. Besides, I was already dead, and Solt was the one who paid the rent.

 

“What a shithole,” Dmitri wrinkles his nose as he steps into the small space. He looks back over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Solt. “You said you liked this guy?”

 

“It is complicated,” comes Solt’s icy reply as he pushes past his guard. His boots sound imposing on the old, wooden floorboards. He stops near the edge of an old mattress in the corner. The crumpled blankets still form a hollow shell of the space where I slept. He frowns up at the crucifix nailed into the wall before he turns to take in the rest of the space.

 

One plastic laundry basket, half-filled with clothes. One cheap, electric heater. One picture of Saint Joseph; the family who lived here before left it glued to the wall. One mini fridge pushed into the kitchen's aclove. There are vegetables inside, and a bottle of vodka shoved into the freezer space at the top. I didn’t use it for drinking; it made good antiseptic without that hospital smell.

 

One crooked table with a mismatched chair. I bet he never even noticed the yellowed newspaper propping up one of the legs. It was from three days after we first met. I kept it to remind me, even though that kidnapping never did make the news. No one cares about the immigrants in the slums, right? Perhaps the police think that we should all just pray to Joseph instead.

 

It really is a shithole but it never really bothered me as long as I had food to eat. Solt could have afforded something much better for me, it is true. He offered many times. Each time, I said no. I don’t like to feel kept; not even by him.

 

Solt drops to a squat and flips over the mattress with a grunt. There is nothing underneath.

 

_ As if I would hide anything there,  _ I scoff. So obvious.

 

_ Maybe. Who knows with you? _

 

“I found something,” I hear Dmitri calling.

 

Solt stands and turns to see him stepping out of the bathroom, flicking water from his hand. “Toilet cistern,” he explains with a grimace, peeling apart the dripping, ziplock bag. I can see the money through the plastic. “It wasn’t hard to find it,” Dmitri comments with a frown, pulling out the wad of bills. “You think drugs, maybe?”

 

“No,” Solt sighs. “I gave it to him. Count it.”

 

The table creaks as Solt sits down on it and lights up a cigarette while he waits for Dmitri to finish counting the bills. He shares a long stare with Saint Joseph before he turns away and blows a plume of clove-scented smoke into the centre of the room.

 

“Two thousand,” Dmitri announces. “Why didn’t he spend more of it?”

 

Solt scowls. “He didn’t spend  _ any  _ of it. But then... how...” He trails off, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

 

“Hrm?”

 

“We had a fight, a few months ago,” Solt explains reluctantly, hunching his shoulders forward. “He shows up one night with this big, flashy tattoo. It looks like shit, but even so, it should have cost at least a few hundred dollars. He  _ never  _ has that kind of money.”

 

_ Ah. _ I remember.

 

_ I was so sure you wasted it. _

 

I chuckle.  _ You think I waste money now, Solt? Maybe you don’t know me so well, after all. _

 

_ Then how did you get that tattoo? _

 

“He must have paid for it somehow,” Dmitri scoffs. “No one gets a tattoo for free.”

 

“I don’t know. I kicked him out before he could tell me.” Solt admits with a sigh.

 

_ You did.  _ I recall.  _ You know, it  _ was _ given to me. _

 

_ By who?  _ Solt asks indignantly.

 

I can feel myself smiling even without a body. The vision of Dmitri slows down to a crawl until he is almost frozen, mid-sentence. Solt blinks, and the scene changes as we are pulled into a different memory. This one is mine; I hold it dearly. We are in a dark void surrounded by distant stars, and she smiles at me.

 

_ W-what?  _ Solt stammers. The girl’s body seems to glow so brightly that she loses shape in some places as he struggles to comprehend what he is seeing.  _ Who is that? Rasputin! Where are we? _

 

I can hear the sound of skipping.  _ Holy _ , I answer without thinking.

 

He blanches at the word and I have to focus hard to keep the memory stable.  _ You wanted to know why,  _ I say pointedly.

 

_ This isn’t anywhere! _ He cries out.  _ Where  _ are  _ we?! _

 

_ Fine,  _ I grunt.

 

In the gentle hours of the morning, my boots crunch on the pavement and my legs feel as heavy as lead. It is not her fault, though; I just haven’t been sleeping much. Even though she has grown, she weighs hardly anything; she's like a bundle of sticks on my back. Her thin wrists loop around my neck and I hold her up under her knees and try to ignore the bruises on them.

 

Lifting her head, she points to a old town house not far from where I used to live with my family. I haven’t been back since the day my old man stole my money from working at the grocery, but now isn’t the time to think about that. I let one of her legs go and knock on the door. Will they even still live here? It's been years. I’m sorry I couldn’t find her sooner. If only I had run faster on that day. Still, I hope she understands that I did the best I could.

 

The man who answers the door is wearing a blue tracksuit, and he has a cigarette clamped between his teeth. Patchy crucifixes are inked on the sides of his neck and there's a single teardrop tattooed on his cheek. He seems confused to see me; even more when he sees who I am carrying.

 

“ _ Tata _ ,” her small voice pipes up by my ear.

 

His knees buckle and he grabs onto the doorframe for support. “Nadia,” he whimpers, the cigarette falling from his mouth. He gawks as I set her down on the ground and she runs forwards to wrap her arms around him. No more tattooed tears now; the real things stream down his cheeks as he holds her close.

 

“Izabella!” he turns and shouts out, voice breaking.  _ “Izabella! _ ”

 

A woman appears at the top of the stairs and freezes. It takes only a second before she is thundering down the stairs, her bushy hair bouncing behind her. “ _ Nadia! _ ” she screams.

 

“ _ Mama! _ ” the girls cries out, wriggling away from her father and meeting her mother in a hug. He joins them and the family clings to each other, curled up on the stairs and openly weeping.

 

I look down for a moment and carefully stub out the cigarette with my toe. I didn’t imagine it would be so intimate; I guess that was naïve of me. I glance back out onto the street and I think about leaving quietly, but he stops me, grabbing me and speaking urgently.

 

My brow furrows as I try to listen. The language has familiar rhythms but it sounds strange to me. Polish, I think. I don’t know it, but judging by his expression I can get the gist of it. I recognise just one word and it alarms me.

 

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head with a frown. Even one word of this language sounds cautious and clumsy on my tongue. “No...  _ policja _ . No anything.”

 

He’s confused. He looks me up and down for a moment and then his eyes go wide. Shaken, he steps back and nods warily. “No  _ policja, _ ” he agrees.

 

I follow his gaze and see the blood splattered across the hem of my shirt. Shit. I guess I’ll have to burn it or something. What a waste.

 

What does he think of me, I wonder? With the wetness still clinging to his eyes it is hard to tell if he is grateful or afraid.

 

“I had to…” I trail off. There’s no point trying to explain. Maybe he already understands, or perhaps he won't care at all now that he has his little girl back.

 

The sound of a deep sniff grabs our attention and we look back to the stairs. The woman has calmed down a little, her smiling face streaked with tears.

 

“Mama,” the girl says in a small, sweet voice. ‘Nadia’ must be her name. We watch as she leans up to her mother’s ear, whispering something secret.

 

The woman stares into space for a moment, catching her breath. Smiling, she wipes her cheek as she looks at me, then scoots to one side on the step to show her shoulder to me. When she lowers one strap of her yellow sundress, I can make out the top of a tattooed wing.

 

“Emil,” she says softly, followed by a string of words I don’t know.

 

His eyes widen, looking between her and me before nodding. He places one hand on my shoulder with a new sense of urgency.

 

“Please,” he says, gesturing to his wife’s back with an open palm. “Uh…” He uses his hand to pat my back, directing my attention down the short hall. There are no cars in his garage; just a padded table and a bunch of drawings taped to the wall in black ink. A tattoo machine. I think he means to pay me.

 

“Please.”

 

The way he says it reminds me of Giorgio, the grocer, pushing bags of apples into my arms after I have swept the floors. People give what they have, I guess. While I never really wanted anything; food is something I need. A tattoo would be a very different thing. Unnecessary, but still; I see the look he gives me. They both look that way at me… and it seems like, to them, it means everything, you know?

 

I've never had something that was so important before. The only thing that even comes close is Solt's pager. I take a deep breath. Why not? I will have to ditch this shirt anyway. He might as well use it to wipe up the ink.

 

I force a smile even though I don’t feel like it. This moment should be happy.

 

“Okay.”

 

I open my eyes and return to the room. Solt has turned around; on his hands and knees, he stares at me with his mouth hanging open, twitching between a smile and a grimace.

 

“You saved her?” he asks in a whimper. “This whole time, that was what you were doing?”

 

I take some time before I answer. It is a lot to process. Breathing deeply, I meet his gaze and give a nod. “Yes.”

 

A weak laugh escapes him and he lifts one hand to push back the hanging locks of his hair. “You fucking martyr,” he whispers. “That’s how you did it. That’s how you got these.” He nods his head towards the feathery wings on either side of me.

 

“Maybe,” I shrug. I don’t agree. I could have said ‘no’ to the Holy. Nothing  _ made  _ me. If I had refused the call, would I have become a demon like him, or simply nothing?

 

“Hey, Rasputin…” he murmurs, hunching his shoulders as he looks up at me again. A deep furrow forms in his brow. “That girl, what did you save her from?”

 

My stare hardens and I turn away. Even without looking, I still find his hand and place mine over his. When I don’t answer, it is as good as answering. I might as well have just said it, only I don’t think I could make my mouth say the words. Solt’s frown fades and even his blood-red eyes turn wide and haunted when he figures it out. 

 

“Shit,” he says weakly.

 

“Yes,” I nod. “It was all… shit.”


	17. Taskbreaker

I don’t think Solt understands just how much I have seen.

 

I could show him, but I don’t think I want to and I doubt he would want to see, either. Or maybe he would scold me and say that he does not need protecting, but I will protect him all the same. What would he really learn from seeing such terrible things, anyway? Probably nothing. Just like he has committed so many scandalous acts with other men that I would never care to witness; we do not need to share absolutely everything.

 

Myself, on the other hand; I learned a lot from the lifting. I thought I had seen it all just because I had lived poor and on the streets, but I had seen nothing. People rarely die like they do in the movies; where it is quick and beautiful and all their clothes are clean. The number of people who fade away in bright, white hospitals, surrounded by their family, is far too few.

 

The rest don’t die so easy. Torn, burnt, blistered, bloody; shitting out their insides, riddled with disease. Run under cars, out of food or maybe even out of sanity. Some are so thin that I can see their bones from the outside; their papery hands reach up to me blindly as flies crawl across their yellowed eyes. There are murders that are worse than famine; bloated, purple corpses with cement on their feet. Faces burnt away by acid or crushed between machinery. Twitching child soldiers, gunned down, their bloodstream still riddled with LSD; seems enough like murder to me.

 

No matter how they die, they all call to me in a shining hum that makes just one small piece of the celestial harmony. I took their hands and pulled them free of their rotting bodies. I lifted because that was the task given to me.

 

I have seen a lot of soldiers and civilian casualties. The task led me to battlefields frequently. On the front, in villages and ruined cities. On days with heavy shelling, when there are too many souls to lift, you can see others like me. This is one of those times; their small, white bodies descend all around the crater of the bomb site. I watch for only a moment before I go back to shifting rubble where my task is waiting for me. His name is Fahed, and he was only fifteen. Too many children are dying.

 

Another angel lands beside me. He does it so quietly that I do not notice until he speaks. “Let me help you, brother. I have his cousin, I think.”

 

I’ve spoken to other angels from time to time, but it never lasts for long. We are busy, after all. Sometimes I wonder what it is like for them. Are they the same as me? If you led a good life, perhaps you lift less. Maybe. Hunched over a rock, I look up to see his face just as his hand lands on my shoulder.

 

Hey.

 

Is this a joke or something?

 

Blond hair, broad jaw, eye scar. I remember his face so clearly, especially when it was bloody.

 

Biskup.

 

I remember when I had him handcuffed to a radiator in the back room of some sleazy dance club. The music thumping through the walls gave good cover. “ _ Biskup! _ ” I laughed. In the high of what I did, everything seemed funny. I think that is called ‘manic’. “Where are those kids, huh? No one is coming, so just tell me.”

 

I adjust my grip on the baseball bat. I slipped in the back way, so no bouncers stopped me. He’s been drinking, but that black eye is probably helping to sober him up. His designer sunglasses lie broken on the floor. Without them, he looks less like a hotshot with his bleach-blond hair and more like an accountant or something. But even if you take the suit away, he’s still worse than trash to me.

 

“I don’t know what ‘kids’!” he yells.

 

Bullshit. I target his ribs because I need his head clear to get information. Shoving the end of bat in as hard as I can, I hear a  _ crack  _ and he screams.

 

“The girls, Ladislav,” I say, squatting down to get a closer look at him. I use my hand to push against the spot I just rammed and I feel his ribs shift much too easily. They must be broken. His strangled whine changes in pitch when I touch it. He’s like a human instrument.

 

“Maybe boys, too,” I carry on. “Who knows with men like you. I just want to know where you are keeping them after they are taken.”

 

He spits on the ground; it comes out pink on the tiles. “No boys,” he growls.

 

“Just girls, then.” I set down the baseball bat loudly and reach into the back pocket of my jeans. “Where are they?”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

This is getting annoying. I don’t like to stay in places like this for too long, you know? Especially not with a big criminal tied up and bleeding. I think he just came here to fuck; the bastard didn’t even have a gun, but who knows if any of his friends are here, too?

 

“You know,” I say casually, “There are always saying about chemical castration and things on the TV, but I think my idea is more simple.”

 

His eyes go wide as I flick open the switchblade. I watch as he crosses his legs with a wince. “I didn’t touch them!” he cried, “Not like that!”

 

“I am not going to cut off your balls, Biskup,” I chuckle. “I do not want your disease. No… there’s something much more easy.”

 

I put my hand on his forehead and shove it back roughly. “If you cannot  _ see  _ a kid,” I reason aloud, leaning in close, “Then how can you do anything?”

 

I only have to jam the tip into the soft skin beneath his left eye before the panic takes him.

 

“No!” He screams, “ _ Please! _ I-I didn’t! I can give you money!  _ Anything _ !”

 

But I am not interested in money. I press harder and blood begins to weep from the wound. “I have never seen an eyeball outside of a head before,” I grunt with the effort to keep him still. “Maybe it will be interesting.”

 

His face is flushed and covered with sweat. He starts crying. “You don’t understand!” He weeps. “They’ll kill me! Kill me, if I say anything!”

 

“Then you are already dead,” I snap, making a shallow slice across the shadow of his eye. “Because if you do not talk, I will kill you tonight, and it won’t be pretty.”

 

I put the tip of the knife back to his face. Not skin this time, but the white of his eyeball. “Last chance.”

 

“Okay! Okay!”

 

Biskup.

 

The worst thing is that he is smiling. That he is happy. I can see the way it puts air in his chest, spreads his face into a grin. 

 

_ Biskup? _ Seriously? How is he holy?! How is he… I grit my teeth. My hands are shaking.

 

“It’s you,” he says, beaming as he reaches for my face with his hands.

 

    I knock his hands back when I lift the rock above my head.“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I growl.

 

His lips fall slack. Eyes wide. “No--”

 

I lunge for him but he disappears.

 

Hey.

 

My hands close on open air and I no longer hear Fahed. The world has changed. What is this place?

 

I felt so grounded just a moment ago; now I am in the air, above a kind of battlefield I have never seen before. The task is  _ up _ but I don’t know if I want to do it anymore. Does the world really need me to be some holy ferry when even scum like Ladislav Biskup can make the cut? For just one slip-up to send me here when a piece of shit like that can take up the task...

 

_ Holy _ . It sounds annoying now; leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Hey, old man: go fuck yourself.

 

It’s hot here. The earth looks scabbed and I can see piles of bodies. What, is this to punish me? Am I supposed to be scared now?

 

I hear a faint  _ thwoomp  _ and turn just in time to catch the black blur shooting past my face. Archers with black, beetle-like visors and featherless wings. My white form stands out like a sun in the smoky sky; I’m a sitting duck. Swearing, swoop down in a barrel-roll and keep close to the ground, weaving in and out of wreckage.

 

I look back over my shoulder to see if they are following me and then I nearly collide with another set of white wings around the bend of a rock formation. Another angel. Gasping, he grabs my shoulders with hands that are still wet with blood.

 

“Help me!” He pleads. “I didn’t mean to do it!  _ Please _ !”

 

I push him away with a grimace. “Get away from me.” I am done helping. Whose blood is that anyw--

 

_ thwoomp _

 

My eyes go wide. I guess it doesn’t matter now. The arrow hit him in the throat. Whirling around, I fall just in time to see another arrow hit him in the same place before the body drops. This guy has good aim; I am in serious trouble. Why am I unarmed?! I always used to have a weapon, and now I have nothing! Piece of shit ‘holy’!

 

_ Left us. Left us left us  _ lift  _ us Holy _

 

My head hurts. The harmonies sound like a record is skipping; ancient chants are discordant and buzzing. Dropping to a squat, I grunt and spread my wings wide, launching myself up into the air. I have to get away from here! Find somewhere to--

 

_ thwoomp _

 

The arrow lodges in my shoulder and I drop out of the sky with a weak shout. The rock makes for  a hard landing and I can barely move my wing. Writhing on the ground with a silent scream, I catch a blurry vision of those dead, glassy eyes looking at me (with MY face is that  _ MY  _ face?!) and it sends a stab of panic through me.

 

_ I -- YOu -- see -- wE (LIFT) holy -- light RIGHteous HOLY _

 

This is it; I’m fucked. The fucking haywire mess of musical voices in my head is too loud but he must be moving in for the kill. Shit! Fuck! He’s going to kill me! What happens the second time that you die?

 

_ In iAM a holY -- LfTUS (you) wOrk -- We _

 

It hurts too much; I can’t see. It’s so loud, it’s the room is spinning, and the sound is warped and it sends a queasy heat through me, like infection, like food poisoning, and he is coming for me. His face is terrible and black like a beetle and he peels back his shell like it is NOTHING and then his words come so close, so cruel but tenderly, cutting through the din:

 

_ HOLY! HOLY! _

 

"Does it hurt?"

 

I shut my eyes and I  _ scream _ .


	18. Everybody Says it

“I always wondered how Biskup made his money, without drugs or guns.”

 

We are eating breakfast on the balcony, or at least, I think it is breakfast. The way time passes here still feels strange to me. Nevertheless, we are eating. We sit on the ground and share one plate between us. Apples for Solt, and cold pizza for me. It is good, but the topic of conversation to go with it could be better.

 

“I poured drinks for him and I had no idea,” Solt tilts his head at me. “How did you figure it out?”

 

“I just did,” I answer gruffly, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.

 

Solt narrows his eyes. He can smell my bullshit, I think. He was always good at that. He confirms my thoughts with his next words. “You beat it out of someone,” he accuses.

 

What can I say? It’s true. I left a trail of black eyes and broken noses in my wake when I was hunting for that name. Sometimes broken fingers and missing teeth. Even now, at the back of my mind, it nags at me: perhaps that’s why I was captured for the slave market so easily. The people here, they make their own suffering. If you think you deserve something, it will happen. Like a taste of my own medicine.

 

I’ve waited too long to answer; Solt’s eyes are already smiling and the next bite of his apple has an air of victory. I watch the muscles of his throat move as he swallows. “It’s funny, you know,” he said airily. “I did the same thing.”

 

That gets my attention. “Dmitri?” I ask, pulling another slice of pizza from the box laying beside us.

 

“No,” Solt replies slyly. “Me.”

 

I watch him for a moment and I see the smirk fade quickly as he dwells on the memory. It must have been something sad or maybe even embarrassing. After the incident with his mother’s bedroom, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to pry. Solt solves the problem for me.

 

“He said… something terrible about you, you know. Vasily,” Solt murmurs, setting down his half-eaten apple with a furrow in his brow.

 

“Vasily?” I snort. “Piece of shit. He has said all kinds of things.”

 

“No,” Solt shakes his head. “This was different.”

 

Grumbling, I toss my crust back into the pizza box and wipe my hand on my thigh. I can always eat more later, but it is annoying to spend time on shit like this. “What did he say?” I press the matter, already knowing that I don’t want to hear the answer. What else could it be? Faggot, thug, thief? Retard? Pussy? 

 

“It was almost funny,” Solt says, but he can’t quite make it to a laugh. It’s difficult to see if it’s humour or pain in his eyes as he lets the piece of apple fall from his hand, back onto the plate. “He was crying,” he scoffs, “He never made me cry. Not even my  _ mother  _ made me cry. Yet he called  _ me  _ ‘bitch-boy’… fucking coward.”

 

Something in the air changes; bitterness, I think. I put down my food, too. It’s not a good time to eat, right now. “Do you want to show me?” I ask.

 

His eyes slide towards me and they finally crinkle with a smile. “Do you believe me, Rasputin?” he asks, showing just a glimmer of his large teeth. “Do you really want to see?”

 

“Yes,” I say, unwavering. Of course I want to see. I want to know what he did after I died; what made him so sad and angry; enough to earn these black wings of his.

 

He pushes himself and crawls closer to me. I lean forward gamely, but when our foreheads touch there is still a dragging pause where nothing happens. Cracking my eyes open, I see him steeling himself before he takes my face in his hands quickly, breathing in so long and so hard that it seems to make him grow taller right before my eyes.

 

I worry a little, but I breathe in and let it happen anyway.

 

To see Solt in his human form, in those heels of his, is really something. He carries himself in a completely different way when he is not afraid; like each pointed toe is the full stop in a death warrant. His expression says that the stiletto heels have tasted blood and dark red of his lipstick says he has tasted it, too. The whites of his eyes grow wider as he drags the end of my old baseball bat along the floorboards.

 

It is almost funny; he is terrifying, yes, but looking from the outside, I still think ‘strip tease’. The way he moves has a weight to it; regal, dramatic, like he practiced. It is where he draws his confidence from, I know it. Vasily looks like he is about to piss himself. He has him tied to the chair in the middle of a stark and empty room. Judging by this big mirrors, I’d say it is used by the club as a dance studio. 

 

“What did you take from me, Vasily?” he asks, and I realise just how angry he is underneath that painted face. I can see the fear in Vasily’s eyes, too; his face goes pale and takes on the same bluish hue as his shaved scalp.

 

“I didn’t!’ he splutters. “No one’s seen Rasputin for a year! Not even at the grocery! Money; they say he has money now…” 

 

What a rat fink. Solt’s expression says the same. “The drugs,” he says, nose wrinkled.

 

“It’s not from me!” Vasily says quickly, trying to lift his shoulders from the ropes that hold him to the chair. “Not my money! I offered him to sell and he told me to eat shit. Fucking ungrateful puss--” the word cuts short as he clenches his teeth, eyeing the way Solt looks down his nose at his wrist. His hand lifts the bat to be level with the floor before fingers curl tightly around the grip.

 

Solt lets his eyes flick back to Vasily. “Did you kill him, Vasily?”

 

“Fuck, no!” he spits. “You think I go to jail for that piece of sh--”

 

Solt brings the bat up to his shoulder and his other hand joins the grip, silencing him. “You know something,” he accuses, face deadpan. “There is no way Rasputin got in with the Petrovs without help.” 

 

Vasily’s brow furrows. “The Petrovs?” he swears under his breath, the frustration clear on his face. “It wasn’t us! We don’t fuck with the Petrovs! Your mother told us ‘no’!”

 

“You’re lying!” Solt barks. 

 

But he’s not lying; I know how to read a man. And I know that Vasily is too stupid to put up a convincing act, but he’s smart enough to take an order from Katarina when he gets one. 

 

Solt is not convinced; the bat connects with his cheek bone with a metallic ring that bounces off the mirrors and sounds louder than it should. I see the hardness in Solt’s eyes and it seems so unlike him, truly. Has he even hit anyone before? Maybe not; hitting the head isn’t the best when you want information but I keep my thoughts to myself. The skin is split and bleeding and Vasily’s head lolls in a daze. 

 

“You make connections for him?” Solt asks abruptly, drawing the bat up again.

 

It is all Vasily can do to shake his head stupidly, snivelling. He screams when Solt moves to hit him again but this one is just a feint; he stops right away. 

 

With a scoff, Solt reaches out with other hand and runs a manicured nail along the cut he had made. “Bitch-boy,” he sneers. “You think you are so tough? Just tell me what you did so you can get out of my sight.”

 

This is not a good way to do it. I should have taught him somehow. I should have told him everything, then he would know that Vasily is a coward but he is poor like me and he comes from the same kind of shitty family and hitting him does nothing but remind him why he needs to be a bully. As much as I want to hit him too, I know that he would take a bribe, so, so easily. If Solt just let him into that fancy club and passed him an envelope and a glass of whiskey… but he is angry, and he doesn’t know how to do this. Not like me. I can see Vasily scraping together his anger even now. His arms are tied; words are all he has.

 

“You stupid bitch,” Vasily growls. “You want to hit me? Hit me! It won’t bring your dead dog back!”

 

Solt only has the bat in one hand at this point. He rams the handle up into the soft part underneath Vasily’s chin and makes him bite his tongue. He spits up blood, swearing.

 

“Call him a dog again,” Solt dares him, forcing his head back with the bat. “Rasputin was ten times the man you will ever be.”

 

“You think he’s so great,” Vasily sneers, spitting again. “Fucking faggot! And you know what I hear?” He breaks out into the same mean grin from the streets when we were kids, licking his lips as he leans up as best he can. “I hear that he was into  _ kids _ . Did you hear, too?” 

 

Solt freezes, eyes wide. The shock just eggs Vasily on.

 

“Shit,  _ every _ body is hearing this. Always Rasputin, always asking, ‘kids, kids, where can I find kids?’ How’s that for information, huh? Your boyfriend was a fucking kiddie fiddler!”

 

Vasily is laughing, and he can’t see it, but I can. I can see the way that something inside Solt cracks and all his choreography is gone, and he is left raw and afraid and angry. And Vasily is hurting him, and he has a bat. It’s just like math; the easy kind from before I dropped out of school. And the answer is a  _ scream _ .

 

“Maybe the kids shoot him up--” The jaw; the cheek, the jaw again. Left, right, left. Solt’s screaming mixes in with Vasily’s. The chaos; of course it calls Dmitri, of course the giant man was waiting just outside the door. He would have brought Vasily here for him. He swears and wades into the fray, grabbing the bat with his thick-fingered hands and wrestling it away. Solt just keeps going with his fists. This he does like Katarina has shown him, surely; fingers curled, the pointed second knuckles straight to the soft hollow of Vasily’s eye socket. Heel of the hand to the nose. Vicious. By the time Dmitri pries Solt off of him, Vasily’s face is a bloody, puffy mess, blinded in one eye from the swelling. 

 

“Don’t kill me,” he whimpers, tears carving pink streaks through the blood on his face. “Please! Oh god,” he sobs. 

 

And Solt; Solt is crying too, his tears making black trails from some makeup. His hands leave smears of Vasily’s blood when he wipes his face. Like some cornered animal he gives an incoherent scream at the man in the chair before he buries his face in Dmitri’s chest with a wail. I don’t know what happened next; I feel the memory pulling away.

 

Solt is still panting when our faces part, as if he has just stepped back from beating Vasily all over again. I see the adrenalin making his muscles flex before his deep breaths make it slowly ebb away. After a while, his red eyes make fleeting contact with mine before they dart away again.

 

“I guess it… wasn’t so funny…” he says weakly, looking out to the craggy landscape below the balcony.

 

“He was alive,” I say. It is the most comforting thing I can think of. Solt is not a killer.

 

“I know, I know,” he nods in a daze, slowly pushing his hair back from his face. His shoulders slump where he kneels and I take it as a cue to pull him closer. His head is heavy on my shoulder.

 

“I didn’t hear the rumours,” he tells me. “I was so angry. And now, knowing… the girl… how could they think such a thing of you?”

 

“Because I told them,” I say bluntly. I am not sorry; I am not ashamed. I would do it again. “It was the only way I could get to her, by telling them this thing. So what if they think I am scum? They think I am scum anyway. There is no difference.”

 

“No one thinks you are scum, Rasputin,” Solt murmurs.  


 

“Rich boy,” I chuckle, playing with the hair just behind his ear. “You think everyone thinks like you.”

 

“Well, they should,” he answers back without missing a beat. I have to laugh; it’s funny. Of course he would think like this.

 

_ Holy. _

 

“Hold me,” he demands gently, and I do. I loop my arms around his shoulders and let him make a nest in the crook of my neck, resting my cheek on his hair. The position lets me look out at the horizon and that helps me think.

 

_ HooOOol-yy _ .

 

If Solt is not a killer, why is he here? If a piece of shit like Biskup can make the cut, what is stopping feathers from growing on Solt’s wings? Why isn’t he like me?

 

_ My task is eternal and clean. _

 

There’s something he’s not telling me.


	19. A Second Time

The curve of Solt’s ass under my hand. Pale, but warm. I had only ever imagined it before. His build is slender but the muscles of his thighs are strong - from dancing, I think. There is enough fat to make an impression under the grip of my hand when I shift one cheek aside to see the pink between. The lube feels weird on my fingers.

  
    “... Are you sure it won’t hurt?” I ask, hesitating.

 

    He lets out a huff of laughter and shifts beneath me, twisting to look over his shoulder. I only see his face in profile, glimpses of large, pointed as he speaks. “Just do it,” he says, voice warm, “Start with one and go slowly if you are so worried it will hurt me.”

 

    I can feel heat in my face, despite everything. I know he has done this plenty of times before but I still feel afraid, working that first finger into his asshole. It goes in more easily than I was expecting but I am shocked by the heat, the tightness of it when he briefly clenches around me, chuckling. I wonder if he felt the same thing, fucking me. My breath catches in my throat as I imagine what this feeling might be around my cock. I glance towards his face again but I see only wild tresses of hair again. Why does he have to be on all fours?

  
    “H-hey,” I complain, gripping his hip with a grimace as I carefully work in the second finger. “Why are you like this, anyway? You had me on my back.”

 

    He turns again, rosy lips curved in a devious smirk over his shoulder. “It feels better this way,” he answers silkily.

 

    “Then why have me on my back?” I grouse.

 

    “Because I knew it would be the only chance I get to see your face,” he answered, lips parting in a grin. When he chuckles, I feel the tremors of it through my hand.

 

    I swear under my breath, abruptly pushing the rest of my fingers in up to the knuckles and spreading them apart. That makes him stop, head dropping forward with a soft moan, his ass turning taut as he pushes back towards me. “Together,” he tells me. “Higher… but down.”

 

    I gasp as I realise what the instructions are for. That spot… Carefully, I twist my hand so my palm is facing downward, drawing my fingers together and curling them, watching his reaction. The slow arch of his back, the sudden dip of one shoulder, the unseen moan of pleasure from beneath that thick veil of hair. When I tease him more firmly, even the horns in his back pulse and grow bigger, like his wings are threatening to unfurl with the rapture of it. Incredible. When I let go of his hips and slip my hand between his thighs, I find his cock, thick and hard, bobbing there. It feels good and right in my hand, milking him from the base down.

 

    “ _Glupyy_ ,” he hisses, “I’ll cum.”

 

    “So what,” I answer, entranced, stroking down the length of his erect cock and rubbing the pad of my thumb over the velvety head. Who cares about that? I want to make him cum a hundred times.

 

    “Fuck me!” he pleads.

 

    No, no… I want to see his face the first time, too. I know that now. He should not have taught me about the spot so quickly if he did not want me to do this. It is a little harder to get a third finger inside him but once I do, I can rub the mound of this spot on three sides instead of two. Solt mewls and whimpers with the change, and when I glance down at the pale landscape of his back I see red there; thin trickles around the horns of his wings. Watching closely, I see the skin swell and split as the wings beneath them pulse, but the flesh heals so quickly that there is hardly any blood at all. It’s not meant to be dragged out like this, I think… but the pain, he said he likes it. I can feel his dick throbbing in my hand.

 

    “Does it hurt?” I ask, not of his ass, but his back. I receive only an erotic cry in response. With bated breath, I slow down the stroking of his cock and focus on his ass, keeping a steady, rolling kind of pressure on it. I hear the drip of precum hitting the bedcovers and it excites me. His moaning takes on a louder, frustrated tone as he suddenly rears up on his knees, towering over me. He reaches back and his fingers barely close around my wrist before I growl and dart my head forward, teeth closing over the handle of flesh at his hip. He snatches his hand away as though burned, tensing in a way that forces my three fingers to bunch together inside him. I apply more pressure with my teeth as a warning, sucking the skin against the roof of my mouth.

 

    “... _Ublyudok_ ,” he curses quietly, whining as he slowly lowers himself back onto bent elbows. “You said you wanted to learn to fuck.”

 

    I take a ragged breath as I break away from his hip, using my tongue to swipe away strands of spit from my teeth. “Well, now I want to do this,” I say huskily, looking down at the dark pink mark I have made. I run my tongue over it in one broad stroke so my spit will cool in the air before I start pumping his cock again. “And then, when I fuck you, we can be face to face,” I grin.

 

    “ _Ugh_ ,” he groans beneath me. “I should not have told you!”

 

    I chuckle, feeling his ass loosen up enough for me to move my fingers again. I rest my cheek against the curve of his ass, shoulder slumped against the back of his thigh as my hands do their work. The same pressure as before but faster now. I hear his voice raise just a little in pitch as he tried to stop himself from coming. He tries to grip the base of his cock but I knock his hand away, ignoring the cramps in my palm as I pump my fingers into his faster. With my other hand, I make a tunnel for the head of his cock to fuck. It isn’t long before he screams. I’ll never forget the sound. A splitting wail, higher than the pitch he speaks, raw but sweet in the middle. Stuttered, breathless whimpers as his cock bucks against the channel made by my fingers, made slick by spurting cum that pools on the mattress below. Incredible. Amazing. When I look up again, I see that I missed his wings unfurling, I was so entranced by it. I pull my fingers out slowly as I drink in the surreal sight of black bones spread across most of the bedroom. I never would have imagined it between us this way; of course I wouldn’t have. How could I have known about these things?

 

    “Bastard,” he gasps, in English, this time. Arms growing shaky beneath him, he falls to one side to miss the wet spot he made. “Don’t just milk me with your fingers!”

 

    “I liked it,” I grin, not sorry in the slightest. He sees it on my face and scoffs, reaching down to gingerly adjust his twitching cock between his thighs.

 

    “You liked it,” I accuse, crawling over him. I can see his face now, the colour flushing his cheeks; the sweat and strands of hair helping his look of being ruined.

 

    “Of course I did,” he admonished me breathlessly, tilting his chin up for a kiss. He cups my face in his hands for the briefest time before he pulls our faces apart, sticking his thumbs in my mouth to pull my cheeks apart. “But I wanted to be fucked!”

 

    “ _Ere’ll ee o’er ignes_ ,” I answer stupidly, speaking from my throat as best I can with my mouth held open. I lick my lips when I am released. “...Other times,” I say again, still smirking. “I will fuck you other times.”

 

    “You should get rid of it soon, then, before you lose the mood,” Solt tells me as he pulls me against him, my back to his chest.

 

    “Hrmm?” I frown. Does he mean my hard on? It makes a tent in the silk pyjama pants he has made for me, lolling against my thigh. Seeing Solt in such a state had made me almost forget about it entirely. I reach for the bulge like an afterthought.

 

    “The memory,” he corrects me, sounding serious. “The girl. How you saved her. How you died.”

 

    My hand stops. What a mood killer. I let my palm drop to my stomach with a sigh as I mull over the issue with a deep furrow in my brow. Why bring this up now?

 

    “Don’t forget this is Hell,” he whispers. “You accept what your life was, or it festers and you suffer. Listen to me, Rasputin.”

 

    It’s not something I want to think about right now. With a grimace, I reach for one of the rumpled, white sheets on the bed and pull the corner close so I can wipe my eyes. When it comes away, the sheet is a dark shade of pink with ruffles at the edge. My blood runs cold and I shove it away from me with a gasp, swearing.

 

    “Rasputin,” Solt says quickly, rising beneath me. His chest pushes me up into a sitting position. I blink and all the sheets are gone, suddenly; the mattress beneath us is bare and brand new. That was Solt’s doing this time, I think. But the pink sheet… no, impossible. He didn’t even know about Nadia until recently. He could have never known about details like that.

 

    Solt grips my shoulders and pulls me around to face him, a serious expression on his face. “Rasputin, look at me,” he says sternly, holding up two fingers. “Focus on what’s real.”

 

    “I don’t have a concussion,” I grumble, pushing his hand down. “I don’t need to count fingers.”

 

    “You think you are so safe?” Solt scoffs, flicking me on the nose. “You are seeing things already! Don’t lie to me.”

 

    “Don’t flick me,” I growl, nose wrinkling. He raises his hand again as if to flick me and I stare at it with a snarl. I realise a moment later that he is just getting me to do what he wants, anyway. “I’m fine!” I yell.

 

    “At times it’s like balancing on the edge of a knife,” he warns me, red eyes boring into mine. “I’ve been here longer than you, remember. I didn’t lift people.”

 

    “I know,” I huff, looking away. The mattress stays bare, at least. No more sickly pink sheets. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

    “I told you,” he sighs, lowering his hand and leaning back against the headboard. “You can’t hide forever. Your amnesia is fading, and if you don’t face what your life was, it will haunt you. Torture you, even. That is how this place works.”

 

    “Mr. Bigshot,” I grumble. “You have it all figured out, so much that you have magic powers, huh?”

 

    Solt stares at me for a moment without saying anything. In the next moment, we are both wearing one of those floral silk robes he likes so much.

 

    “That’s how it is,” he tells me crisply. Of course he would never apologise for his power. “The real question is, do you want to face your memory alone, or do you want me with you? Because I will do this thing for you, Rasputin, if it is so terrible. I will accept the burden.”

 

    I hesitate. Solt has had enough burdens in his life, I think. He doesn’t need this. Yet the thought of doing it along is unsettling. I remember it being terrible. I remember feeling so sick that I wanted to burn up and die, and that is saying something for someone like me. Even now the dim recollections come close to bringing tears to my eyes. No; no, I could never bring Solt with me through such a thing.

 

    … Solt is the only person I know who I could ever ask such a thing. “Will you hold me?” I say, voice quiet. Even though it is Solt, one hand clenches into a fist, expecting laughter, jeering; a fight. “You don’t have to come with me, but will you hold me, so you are here, when I wake up?”

 

    No laughing. With Solt, there is only sadness in his eyes and gentle smiles. He brushes silky black hair behind his ear and leans forward, kissing me on the forehead. “Of course,” he murmurs, the warmth of his cheek pressing against my temple. The mattress creaks quietly as he slides to his feet. “But later,” he smiles, circling around the bed. “First, come take a shower with me. We’ll make the bed new and clean, so you can sleep.”

 

    I have to scoff as I watch the way he lets the robe slip down from his shoulders, glancing slyly at me from the doorway to the bathroom. “You are always putting clothes on just to take them off,” I accuse.

 

    “It is more fun this way,” he answers, eyes twinkling. I should have known he would say it. Still, it does make me feel a little better. Crawling to the edge of the bed, I climb down, shucking the robe from my shoulders like a shell.

 

    “I think I will need another shower, after we do this thing,” I muse aloud, feeling my skin start to crawl already.

 

    “Then that is what we will do,” Solt answers serenely. “We have all the time in the world.”


	20. Pink Ruffles

“Our clients are usually a little richer than you,” a chuckle follows the suited man down the hall, and I follow after him. Some Petrov lackey; I don’t even know his name. “This is the first time I am hearing one of our guys spending his own cut on one of our girls but hey! Money is money. You’ve earned it.” He claps me on the shoulder as he guides me around a corner and I want to cut of his hand and then scrub the skin it touched but I don’t. I keep it all bottled up inside, tamped down as far as it will go. I have to.

 

    I am dimly aware that my true body is somewhere safe, that Solt lies on a clean bed holding me in his arms, but walking down this hallway I am still overcome with nerves; the sickness of being discovered, of knowing that I might see something I can never unsee. A hundred times worse than lifting a dumpster lid. A thousand. This may be the most dangerous thing I have ever done. I don’t even have my baseball bat - it was left at the door. How could I bring it with me without raising suspicion?

 

    “You want vodka?” The guy asks me. “We get Moskovskaya Osobaya imported once a month. It’s good.”

 

    “No,” I answer listlessly. “It’s no good for kids.”

 

    He laughs. Maybe I made a joke without trying. We reach a door with a deadbolt on the outside and he knocks. “Nadia,” he calls. “ _Masz gościa!_ ”

 

    There is no answer for about a minute. The door is thick; I don’t hear any sounds until a small _click_ tells me that the snip lock on the inside of the door has been opened. Snip lock on the inside. Deadbolt on the outside. That must be how it works around here.

 

    “She’s good, huh?” The guy smiles at me, smirking as though I am supposed to know and agree with something, as though as I have done this before. I can’t bring my mouth to smile but I manage a curt nod. It matches my serious reputation, maybe. Maybe. He flicks open the deadbolt and opens the door and there she is, standing out in white in a sea of pink. So, her name is Nadia. Of course her dress wouldn’t still be red after all this time but I can still recognise her. Is the white colour supposed to make men forget what others have done to her? Such bullshit. But they are feeding her, I can see she has grown since the day they took her. Her hair is longer; she is still gripping the hairbrush in one hand where she stands waiting by the door, looking up at us with big, brown eyes full of hesitation. Noticing me noticing, she swallows and holds her hands behind her back self-consciously. It fills me with foreboding to think how they made her so obedient.

 

    “Nadia,” the lackey leans down, voice full of false warmth. “This is mister Rasputin. He is spending time with you today. Say hello.”

 

    “ _Dzień dobry_ ,” she says in a tiny, sweet voice, looking away.

 

    “English,” he corrects her. I hear the hard edge creeping into his voice. I am not stupid. Everything seems so perfect and clean on the surface; so orderly. All that means is that there is money here. It doesn’t hide the cruelty. It doesn’t make me forget.

 

    “...Hello.” She tucks her chin in as she speaks, watching me warily. The man claps me on the shoulder again, his hand lingering. I want to break the his hands, his whole arms, but it wouldn’t be enough. It is a struggle to keep my breathing even.

 

    “If you hurt her in a way that makes her bleed, we will break your kneecaps,” he tells me warmly, in the same tone of voice as when he offered me the vodka before. His hand pats my shoulder before it withdraws. “Otherwise, _za nashikh milykh dam_! Have fun. I’ll check on you in a while.”

 

    Right in front of her. The rat bastard. She’s practically trembling with fear when he shuts the door. I move immediately towards it, fingers on the snip lock. I hear the deadbolt click back into place outside. Shit. Of course they wouldn’t trust me so much, even if I run drugs for their gang now. I turn the snip lock anyway, grimacing. It’s a lot; it’s a lot to be here. I can’t cry. Has she seen a grown man cry? Who knows how these men behave when they visit her. Do they cry? Are they angry? Do they hate themselves, or do they convince themselves that they hate her?

 

    … Love her, even?

 

    The thought makes me pitch forward, bracing myself against the door with a shudder. She still hasn’t said a word. I glance over my shoulder at her. The hairbrush is in front of her again; she’s clutching it like a prayer candle. What am I supposed to say now? Looking at her is painful so I look around the room instead. Pink, pink, pink; so much fucking pink. The wallpaper is pink with a white lattice pattern and there are drawers and shelves all stacked high with toys, tiaras and princess costumes. Shelves of story books and stuffed animals and doll houses. “ _Shut up_ ,” all of it says, “ _Stay quiet during the day. Be grateful._ ” They must think themselves so benevolent, so smart to surround her with distractions and bribes and other meaningless shit.

 

    It’s impossibly cruel. She came from my neighbourhood, she was stolen on my watch. We’re all poor. They could not have put her in a less familiar room if they tried. Shit, fuck; a bare brick wall with a leak in the ceiling would have been closer to home. Even I miss the grime of the street, in that moment. I have seen terrible things; I once saw a man whose skull had been run over by a car. The bones had cracked and I know that his left eye bulged but stayed in place because the cord at the back of it kept it tethered in his eye socket. I know this, because the right eyeball had not been so lucky, and it had been laying in front of his contorted face, severed cord and all.

 

    Even that affected me less than this. What am I supposed to say to her, someone I have failed so greatly? Nadia. She may as well have been a goddess before me; unappeasable. But when I turn to look at her, the cold scorn I imagine is not there on her face. There is only the look of being afraid, and it breaks my heart.

 

    “I’m so sorry,” the whisper rushes out of me.

 

    She blinks back at me, still cautious. Of course, English isn’t her first language, but she has no reason to trust me. I swallow, take a deep breath.

 

    “Do they have cameras in here?” I ask quietly.

 

    Her expression changes; confused. She doesn’t understand the word.

 

    “Are they watching?” I ask again, voice growing louder but with a lingering tremor I still can’t shake.

 

    Her eyes flick to the pile of stuffed animals nearest to the door. I keep my head turned towards her but I follow with my eyes. So many glassy, beady eyes staring back at me. The biggest one, the bear; some kind of camera, maybe. Those bastards. If I was wealthy, some kind of politician, I’m sure they would have tried to blackmail me if I stopped visiting. Too bad for them that I am a nobody. My reputation is in tatters already; no one wants to be around me after the things I ask for on the streets.

 

    I hate the idea of it, but it is my only option. I pull my shirt over my head and throw it carelessly, draping the fabric over the pile of toys. I hope it seems natural. It makes my skin crawl a little to bare my chest in front of her, as if I might actually do something to her.

 

    “Do they listen?” I ask pointedly, cupping a hand to my ear.

 

    She shakes her head, still silent. No microphones, then. Less important, I guess.

 

    “Okay?” I ask, making a ring with my thumb and forefinger. I must look like a crazy person. I feel like one. But she gives me a single, stoic nod, her eyes flicking down to the ground and staying there.

 

    My heart sinks as I realise there is nowhere for me to sit except the bed. I guess it is supposed to look girly but I could still imagine the heart-shaped pillows and pink, ruffled sheets in some kind of brothel. I sit on the corner, leaning forward with my hands on my knees.

 

    “Please,” I invite her, gesturing to the play table in the corner like this is some kind of business meeting. Those chairs are too tiny for me, but she slowly walks over and takes a seat, looking uncertain as she leaves the hair brush next to a miniature tea pot.

 

    “I am not going to touch you,” I say. I have to say it. I have to let her know, even if she does not believe me; I’ll die if I don’t say it. But that doesn’t make it easy. “... I don’t think I’ll be able to get you out of here today,” I admit, heart heavy.

 

    That gets her attention. Her confusion is replaced with alertness. “ _Zabierzecie mnie do domu_?” she asks me quickly. I don’t understand the words. The last one, maybe; it’s almost the same.

 

    “Home?” I ask carefully.

 

    “Yes,” she answers quickly, leaning forward. Her hands a tight, balled fists resting atop her knees.

 

    “...Yes,” I nod, uneasy. But how?

 

    Am I promising something I can’t deliver? I don’t know. It’s a miracle I’ve already gotten this far, even though it took so long. How am I going to get her out of here and still have her be alive at the end of it? This place is heavily guarded; even if I did manage to break out the bedroom door it would draw the attention of men with guns right away. If I manage to do it soundlessly, the guard at the front door will stop us. I haven’t been here enough times to know if there are other ways out of this place; I haven’t even been inside the back rooms where the men drink their vodka. With a helpless, itchy feeling I realise I’ll have to. I’ll have to go deeper before I can get her out. God, help me.

 

    “Home,” she says again, pointing at me. “ _Chłopiec z kijem baseballowym_.” Sticking her tongue in the corner of her lips, she makes a gesture; two loose fists holding and invisible rod that she swings forward. I gasp as I realise she is talking about my baseball bat. She recognises me? I guess, as conspicuous as she was out in the street, skipping, I was just the same. An angry boy sitting on the steps of the cul de sac like a throne, like a watch post, bat in hand. Of course she would have seen me.

 

    “Yes,” I nod quickly. “Nadia. It is me.”

 

    “Rasputin,” she tries the name out. I can’t read the emotion on her face now; it’s not afraid like before at least, thank God, but it’s not happy, either. “No home today?”

 

    “...No,” I answer slowly, crestfallen. A fresh feeling of failure hangs over me.

 

    “Do you come back?”

 

    “Of course,” I lift my head. “Yes. I will come back.”

 

    She sniffs, wipes her nose on the back of her hand. She frowns, thinking. “Okay,” she says. “You will come back.”

 

    “I promise,” I blurt. “I’ll find a way.”

 

    A loud rapping on the door makes my heart jolt.

 

    “ _Hey, lover-boy!_ ” the lackey calls through the door. “ _You did not pay us that much money. Five minutes,_ _da_?”

 

    I swear under my breath, looking back to her. She looks too normal like this. They’ll know I did not do anything. And they could burst in at any moment if they wanted; it is almost impossible to kick out a deadbolt but it is practically nothing to kick in a snip lock.

 

    “Nadia,” I say urgently. “Listen to me.” Shit! Fuck! How to explain? “Uh,” I thrust my hands into my own hair, mussing it up. “Go like this!”

 

    She gives me a disturbed look in the way that only little girls can but her eyes flick towards the door and I think she understands. She tips her head forward, her face hidden by a mop of dark hair that she tousels messily with small, pale hands.

 

    “Okay,” I exhale, getting to my feet. I back away from the bed, giving it a wide berth now. “...Get on the bed,” I point, wincing as she follows the order without hesitating. She’s heard that one before. “Face down," I say, trying to judge the scenario from a different perspective. Would they buy it? It still looks… “Uh,” I stammer. “Pull down… pull down…”

 

    Leaning up on her elbows, she glances back at me with a furrow in her brow before she lets her chest fall flat to the bed and she reaches back to tug up the skirt of her dress. Disturbed, I turn around right away. I hear faint creaks from the mattress and I suppose she is wriggling, pulling down her panties in a way that it might look like I have… oh, God.

 

    Heart hammering, I snatch up my shirt and pull it over my head, frantic. I stare at the wall for a long minute, trying to make my body language seem calm. I should have unzipped my fly before I let the camera see me again, I realise. I will try to remember to do that next time. Should I steal cigarettes from Vasily to make a show of it? Who knows how many times I will need to come back before I figure it out.

 

    A knocking at the door, more polite, this time.

 

    “ _Have fun?_ ” A voice sounds through the door, followed by the click of the deadbolt. Sniffing, I rearrange my features into an annoyed frown as I reach out and unlock the snip.

 

    “It was fine until I was interrupted,” I scowl.

 

    He doesn’t even bat an eyelid; he chuckles. “So, sue me,” he throws up his hands in mock surrender. “I do my job. Looks like you did yours, too,” he gives me a crooked leer as he inclines his head towards the bed.

 

    I have to look. I realise that I have to look. Steeling myself, I make a show of pushing him back in the chest as I pass. “Yes,” I sneer.

 

    That glimpse of her cracks my expression like a clay mask, making my eyes goes wide for a brief instant. It’s the colours of it that make me remember it so vividly. A mess of dark hair pressed into a pillow, white dress bunched around her hips, panties pulled askew. The pale skin of her thighs is blotchy and red; she must have reached back and squeezed roughly with her hands. It makes it look real; chillingly so. I didn’t think of that. If she had not been so smart, I might have ruined her only chance of getting out.

 

    Blinking hard, I make sure I am frowning again when I stride out into the hall. “I’ll be back.”

 

    “... You’re right,” I murmur, opening my eyes to the clean, white ceiling in our bedroom. My fingers curl lightly around Solt’s forearms where it wraps across my chest. “I’m not in the mood so much, now.”

 

    “Do you want me to hold you?” he murmurs, lips close to my ear. I don’t answer, and it is just as good as answering. He shifts back and lets me roll onto my side, settling in behind me, the warms of his palm splayed on my stomach, his breath at my ear. I love him more than I can describe in that moment, as I close my eyes. I manage to do it without crying.


	21. Searchlight

Ugh, I hate this. The dreams come in quick flashes, each one too fast to really draw me in but still strong enough that they leave me stinging. Lenkov’s fists as Vasily and Mario pin my shoulders to the wall of an alley, my eyes turning black and puffy, slimed with dripping spit from one of them. I forget who; my heady was foggy. 

Giorgio’s apron, stretched over his round belly, blocking the door as he turns me away from the grocery. No work for me now, he says. I have to find somewhere else to get food to eat.

“You want vodka? Vodka?” That fucking Petrov lackey: every time, over and over again. Half a dozen times, easily. Always the same thing. “You want vodka, lover-boy? It’s good shit.” I want to punch out the teeth in that crooken smile of his.

Nadia’s little face, defiance burning in her eyes, frowning up at me as I snatch my hand away.

I awake with a gasp and a swear under my breath. There is a pain in the heel of my hand: bringing it up closer to my face in the dim bathroom light, I can make out the half moon of a small bite mark, the small dents still pink in my flesh. A huff of laughter pushes out of me as I rub the mark away, looking down at Solt laying next to me. He is still asleep. I don’t want to disturb him. 

_ Holy _ .

Hello, old friend; the voice in my head. Stifling a sigh, I crawl off the mattress and creep out of the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. There is one slice of pizza left in the fridge, I think. I can’t get more without waking Solt, but one slice is enough. I am not so hungry, lately, but I’ve never been so sick that I cannot eat. Whenever I’ve remembered eating, that is.

The open door bathes me in a white-blue light and when I reach for the cardboard box I hear something like whale song.

…  _ nalanclean _ …

I stop, straightening my back and turning my head towards the balcony. I pull the pizza box from the fridge but leave it on the counter, letting the fridge door swing shut. This is not the same call as my ‘ _ holy _ ’, I am sure of it. Similar, but unique, like a different voice singing in the same harmony. 

_ Nalanclean, nalanclean… my task is eternal and clean _ …

My fingers are already on the latch to the sliding door. Like a moth to the flame, the sound draws me closer, and the sight is enchanting. Against the dark, brooding sky, the pale light is impossible to miss: from this distance, it almost looks like a firefly, bobbing and weaving slowly. It’s another angel, not like the others I saw running on the ground, scared and confused. This one moves smoothly; with purpose. I don’t think anyone is hunting him at all, so what is he doing here?

_ Raspuuutin _ , the sing-song siren calls to me,  _ Where aaarrre you? _ ...

My heart skips a beat and I grip the edge of the sliding door with wide eyes. He’s here for me? Why is he here for me? I was cast down here to rot without rotting, I know. Like a roach swept under the rug. No one’s ever cared about me, so why should this  _ ‘holy’  _ be any different? The only person who’s ever cared is… Solt. I don’t risk shutting the door behind me; even that quiet sound might be enough to wake him up. I place each bare footfall carefully, barely daring to breathe as my wings unfurl behind me. 

The angel has come for me; that does not mean I have to leave. No, I tell myself; he is not so far away, and he still has his mind and I have mine, now. I remember how to fly; it’s easy. If he has come for me, he could have answers for me, too. I want to know so badly. I’m sure I could make it there and back before Solt even realises. He’s still sleeping.   
_ Rasputin... holy, holy… Can you heeaarr me?... _

The balcony is too small to take off; I’ll have to jump. The metal bar is oddly cool under my hand as I lift one foot to climb over the edge. It’s a long way down, I know, but I keep my eyes fixed on the angel’s light in the distance. I don’t want to lose sight of him when I fall; he’s already getting further away. Tightening my grip, I jump up quickly and my cheeks collide with hard metal on either side, a grunt of surprise pushing out from clenched teeth. Bars: metal bars, across the whole balcony. A cage! And the angel is getting away; his voice is getting faint.

…  _ Rasputin… _

“No!” I snarl, grabbing the bars and trying to shake them. They don’t budge. Did he set this up when he brought me here, just like my first prison, only larger? Whipping around, I see him in the living room, pale and naked with a stricken look on his face. 

“He’s getting away!” I yell. There’s no time to explain; all these words are a waste. He’s getting  _ away _ .

“You’re leaving me,” Solt says in a small voice. I still have one hand on the bars and the metal turns stinging. Not hot or cold, but unbearable all the same. Swearing, I snatch my hand away and rub at the skin. 

“What the fuck…” I glance back over my shoulder and I can’t even make out the light through the smog any more. Shit! Fuck! “Solt!” I snap, pushing back through the door. “Get rid of these bars! I have to catch him, I’ll come back after!”

He shakes his head, stepping back blindly and knocking himself off balance as his hip collides with the breakfast counter. Stumbling, he straightens up with something black in his hand, then screams and flings it across the room. I try to track its movement but by the time it hits the wall it’s already gone, vanished away into nothing. And Solt is hunched over with his head in his hands, his long, black hair hanging like bars from between his fingers.

“Shit,” I mutter, closing the distance between us and reaching out to pull his hands away from his face. “What’s wrong with y--” 

His hand clamps around my wrist and the words stop in my throat as his eyes pierce me from between his locks of hair. Not just red: reptilian, his pupils are slits, like a lizard’s or a goat’s, maybe. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, but don’t  _ what _ , I don’t know. Pointed teeth push out from the sides of his lips and his grip is so tight that I can feel the bones of my arms squeezing together. I can’t help it: my wings flare out behind me to make myself look bigger, like some kind of startled animal. His own wings follow suit; the black bone, metal, flint,  _ something  _ scraping the carpet and cabinets as they push out of his back. An ungodly scream comes out of my mouth, partly my voice and partly the  _ holy _ ; it’s like a dozen voices, like the keyboard of a pipe organ smashing, like birds screeching.

He yells out in pain but his voice is almost lost in the din; he can barely keep his eyes open for the noise of it. Clapping one hand over on ear as his other hand goes for my throat. We fall to the floor in a terrible, screeching, snarling, heap, the force our wings flapping flipping us over and over again, yet still I scream. I scream because it is all I have now: it is the only way to hurt him without hitting him, to make him stop this stupid and mad thing. I scream as if all I am is a head and lungs and chest and wings, and somehow I can still hear the sound of it ringing in my ears even after my throat is forced closed and the choking turns my face hot and makes my vision glow red and then go black.


	22. Chains to Bear

I am back in the room again. The collar chaining me is thick and heavy around my neck; I can feel the edge of it digging under my chin when I try to lower my head. But hey, at least I am not alone this time. Solt has a collar and chain of his own: I can see him buckling under the weight of it with every few steps that he takes. No matter how many times he takes it off, it comes back, sometimes in the blink of an eye. He is close to crying, I can see it even in those terrible new eyes of his: the impossibility of beating these fucking shackles is almost funny, in a mad, hysterical way.

His face seems smaller, now. His hairline has crept in closer in the form of black, shiny scales. I’d say this is his fault but I’m no saint, either. Truly. I can’t feel my legs any more and I think it is because I don’t have any now. A holy head, and torso, and wings, watching as he falls to his knees in his efforts to reach me. My stare, unwavering.

 _Holy_.

“You understand, right?” he implores me, wincing as his taloned hands claw at the collar around his throat. His fingers pass through the metal as if it’s a mirage, but their weight seems real enough to me. “You understand why I need you with me?”

“Fester,” I repeat the word he said before, grinding it out like an accusation.

He blanches, snatching back the hand that had been reaching out to me. He still wants to avoid it, I see, but I have no patience for delicacy any more. My voice is stoic and echoing, my body is a white form with six wings. My face is the only human part left of me, and Solt’s own face is still getting smaller.

“Solt,” I say. “Why are you here?”

He breathes in, his tight coil of limbs swelling for a second before he shrinks again.

“You had the same choice.” My voice reverberates around the void. The hum is getting louder. “The same choice as me. Why did you choose this place instead of the lifting?”

His limbs slowly unfurl. “Did I?” he asks, averting his eyes with upturned palms. “Did I have this thing?” Sniffing, he raises his hand to his face to feel the scales growing in. Suddenly, there is a sound like a _crack_ and he flinches again, tightening his hand over his cheek. For an instant I see a flash of an image, as quick as blinking. It’s familiar: a bedroom, I think.

 _You little idiot_ , a woman’s mutter travels around the room in a rapid circle. Solt can hear it too; I can see it on his face. I recognise the voice - his mother, Katarina.

 _Six generations!_ She carries on with a snarl. _Do you know how hard it was for our family after the revolution? Clinging to the dregs of depravity left in the White Russian aristocracy?!_

Solt whimpers, covering his ears again. “Stop,” he says in a small voice, but Katarina’s voice is getting louder.

_Your grandmother brought me to this country for a new beginning! To make family strong again!_

“Solt,” I say.

 _Six generations gone to_ _shit!_

“Solt.” I boom, my wings flaring out behind me. On the outer reaches of the chamber, the curtains flutter with the force of it.

Katarina’s voice grows muffled and he lifts his head, looking at me with tears in his eyes. His face is illuminated in a glow like firelight - it’s coming from me. I feel a cool trickle down my chest and my eyes flick down to see a rivulet of molten steel from the collar dribbling down my chest. I don’t feel pain: no steel can chain me. There is only the _holy_. Freed, I pitch forward and suddenly my face is looming before his.

“Show me,” I say.

He grimaces, shaking his head down at the ground. “No,” he whispers. “Please…”

“Let me see.”

He lifts his head to look at me, this blinding face of mine, and the tips of our noses touch. It’s enough.

“Let me see!” I laugh. We’re teenagers again: playing like children in the alley behind some tattoo parlour. The hem of his shirt is tied into a knot at his sternum and he giggles in kind, holding his hand in front of his stomach. When I pull his wrist away, the other hand just takes its place, but after a few more tries, he decides to show me. The skin around his navel is still pink from the piercing, but there it is: three diamonds hanging like stars from his taut belly.

It’s a nice memory, but it’s a distraction.

 _Let me see_.

I click my tongue, tugging his hand away to inspect the bruise on his cheek. The back room of Giorgio’s grocery: in that moment, I can still feel the ache in my arms from stacking boxes all afternoon. Giorgio let him through the back door when he came asking for me. He let us use a bag of frozen peas.

“She was angry at me for lying,” Solt admits shyly, looking down at the floor. “She asked me what I liked, so I said both. I thought it would be easier that way, you know?” He scoffs. “Next thing I know, she says, ‘Good! Go with Anna, she will teach you.’ And I said no.”

“Fucking bitch,” I grumble, pressing the peas to his cheek again. “At least she does not disown you for being a faggot.”

“Don’t say it like that!” he snaps.

I blink, then pinch his other cheek. “Bitch-boy,” I chuckle fondly.

I’m sorry. I’m old enough to say it plainly, now.

 _Let me see_.

Just like that, we’re all grown up. Solt’s eighteenth birthday, or what was left of it: there were so many clouds in the sky that night, I couldn’t use the moon to tell if it was past midnight. It doesn’t matter, though: up here on the balcony of Solt’s apartment, all the lights of the city are shining like their own galaxy. Cars glide along the roads below like UFOs beneath our swinging feet.

“ _Thousands_ of dollars,” Solt says with bulging eyes, holding up his hands as though he could describe this amount of money to a poor person like the size of a fish. “All for this one stupid thing!”

“Did it hurt?” I asked curiously, leaning my head against the balcony railing.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he shrugs, but I can see the way he shifts uncomfortably on the concrete. “Kind of annoying. It’s been better when I do it myself with that rubber thing, you know?”

I give a hum in reply but my keen eyes don’t miss the way he cups a hand over the glossy veil of his black hair, pressing it against the skin as if to gauge the tenderness of something.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask again.

“It’s nothing,” Solt shakes his head, colour rising in his cheeks.

“Solt,” I frown.

Sighing, he hooks the hair behind his ear, drawing the curtain back to reveal the cluster of marks at the junction of his neck. No teeth, but the blood is just under the skin. The word is ‘hickeys’, I think. Yes... I remember him telling me. 

“For that much money, it’s not problem, right?” he gives me a weak smile.

All of these memories, they’re like ripping away layers of packaging.

_Solt. Let me see._

Darkness. Heavy breathing. A distant, muffled pounding on the door: I think it is Dmitri.

With a wheeze, Solt turns on the light and illuminates the bathroom in his apartment. Hunched over the sink, he stares into the mirror and sees the mascara smudged around his brown eyes, leaving tear-tracks in little black spears. The disheveled hair. He grips the counter tightly and feels the hard, metal lump under his right hand.

The welt on his cheek looks worse than the other ones I remember, and the shape of his cheek bone shows too much even with the swelling. I don’t think he has been eating. It’s strange to see him crying, but things are different now, aren’t they? I am dead now. I am not here to fix things. No peas, no words, no comfort from me.

He sniffs and lifts the gun to his face, pressing his cheek flat against the side of it with a sigh. The cool metal gives him a brief glimmer of piece and in that last moment, he remembers me. As he cocks the gun and sticks the barrel in his mouth, his final thought is a simple one: if he closes his eyes, he won’t have to see the brain splatter.

Hey.

The ground is gnarled and red and Solt wonders if he’s somehow in his own head, seeing the splatter anyway. I see it now, the moment when he first arrived in this hellish place, hunched on all fours and panting. The adrenalin of dying still feels fresh but now his body is different and strange: his pale hands are too large and he has to clench and unclench his fists just to know that they are his. His teeth feel too large in his mouth and his head, his head is pounding: he can hear everything, from the roar of distant battles to the drum beat of his pulse, up close. And just a little further away, there is the sound of dripping getting closer.

Each drop is fat, round and red: the rivulet rolls down the ankle of a dusky foot that does not touch the ground. Two feet; legs, knees: a hand that reaches out and cups his face. Yet when he lifts Solt’s gaze, the head and torso of this man are unknowable static to me, just like the TV screens on the night that I died. Even through Solt’s eyes, all I make out is the frenzied shape of a man without a face. A crown of something curled, like ram’s horns, maybe.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” the floating man says, softly, thumb wiping the tears from Solt’s cheek. Blood is dripping down his arms, too; it falls from the point of his elbow, down into the space between them. “You can make a better life here, perhaps.”

And he drifts away, shadows licking at his heels as he departs into the wilderness. In the crackling static that obscures him, I catch a glimpse of two red, raw wounds in his back and I think I understand.

Solt sobs, hunched over again with upturned hands. The sob becomes a sniff when his palms are suddenly covered by a white towel, just like the kind he had in the bathroom of his apartment. The confusion only lasts a moment before he takes it and wipes his strange new face.

The world bleeds to white.

I breath in, startled, seeing the room once more. It’s like the air has cleared. I see Solt on his knees, staring at me with red-but-human eyes again. No more chains, and the scales on his face have gone away. With a whimper, he lurches forward and wraps his arms around me. I realise I have arms again, and legs; I am back to normal too, I think. If you can call anything ‘normal’ anymore. Slowly, I wrap my arms around him and press my face against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I understand, and I am angry, but not at him. At all of this. He didn’t have the same choice as me.

“It’s all shit.” I grind out the words, staring out at the room with a frown.

“Maybe,” he answers with a small smile, pulling away enough to turn up his palm between us. Looking down, I watch as a red rose blooms on top of his pale skin. “But now I can make things,” he carries on. “It’s the first time I’ve felt free. This place doesn’t have to be so terrible, Rasputin - we can be happy. Just stay with me.”

“I will,” I answer. “But first I have things to do.”


	23. Moskovskaya Osobaya

Coming out of the room with Solt is almost embarrassing, like we’re two children who have made a mess or something. Solt holds my hand and scratches the back of his head as he looks over the damage. The carpet is in shreds and furniture is tipped everywhere: there are even scratches on the ceiling. Solt looks back at me with a guilty grimace. 

“Mine, I think,” he says.

But the guilt fades quickly: he sees the pink weal (already healing) on my skin where the collar was and clicks his tongue, leaning down to inspect the places where some of the metal has cooled again. I frown as I feel him tug gently at the skin, and then I don’t feel anything there. It’s gone again: I guess he did make the metal in the first place. Fixing the whole apartment is going to take a little more time. I watch as he materialises himself a white cotton T-shirt before handing me a pair of blue jeans. At first I think it is a plain choice for him, but once I look up from pulling the denim over my legs, I see that the hem cuts above his studded navel. Now, that is more like Solt. He chuckles at me as he produces some pants made out of black leather and my attention is drawn to the window.

Beyond the balcony is a swirl of tight, black clouds. They move so fast they might as well be a hurricane, but I can’t hear winds howling. A quiet rumble, at best. Are they to hide us, maybe? I’ve never seen him make something like this before. “You can do this?” I ask, incredulous.

Solt hums in reply. “It shows up sometimes.” He runs his palm over the kitchen counter and erases a deep scratch like he was just wiping away dust. Tutting, he stops to gather his tresses of inky hair and pull it up into a pony tail. “This place can be complicated. They might not go away until we learn to get along a little bett-”

He stops, still holding his hair above his head, the elastic loop quivering around outstretched fingertips. Following his gaze to the sliding doors, my eyes widen as I see a light shining through the black whirlwind. The angel. The way he drifts through it, it doesn’t seem as though the wind is touching him at all, and then I realise that is because they aren’t touching him: they pass through him like shadows. Solt can’t make weather after all; it’s just another illusion. 

But the angel is real; one of his anointed feet points towards the balcony railing in a mimicry of landing upon it without actually touching it at all. I feel a stab of understanding at that, of the difference between us. He doesn’t even touch the ground in this place. Me? I’ve touched everything, with every part of my body.

_ Holy _ .

He drifts down a little move, hovering above the balcony floor, now. His clothes are simple and white: a shirt like a tunic and pants held by a cloth belt. The light… no wonder it was so easy to see from so far away. This close, it is nearly overwhelming, around his face especially. His blond hair seems like it could be on fire with the ring of golden light shining behind it. Is this what a halo is meant to be? The pictures of the saints did nothing to describe it properly!

He stops at the sliding door, the pane of glass standing between him and us. 

_Nalanclean_. He shows us his palms like a greeting but makes no move to touch the door handle. Maybe he can’t.

Beside me, I hear Solt’s breath hitch and I glance at him to see him staring, transfixed. “But he died,” he says, confused. 

What a thing to say in a place like this. That was my first thought. With the next, I wondered why he would say it at all. Does he recognise him? Peering at the angels face, I try to make out his features inside the ring of golden light. After that, all there is is feeling, like a hand that squeezes around my heart. Seizing up, I stagger back a step and have to catch my balance on the wall.

_ Rasputin _ , Biskup chimes, tilting his glowing face to one side.  _ Let me in, brother _ .

Drawing in a haggard breath, I manage to jerk forward and grab Solt’s wrist before he steps closer to the balcony door. “No!” I snap.

“I thought you wanted this,” he says, looking back at me with confusion. “You said you had to catch him, now he’s right there.”

“He’s--” I stammer, wincing. All the times I’ve seen Biskup before bombard my memory. Blond hair, broad jaw, eye scar. I remember the night I put it there with the knife but I remember something else, too, and that’s the time that makes my throat feel tight. Even when I look at his face now, I can see flickers of a different face of his, still blotted with dark purple and yellow bruises. Oh god, I had never felt so afraid than I had on that day.

Oh that day…

“Back again?” the Petrov lackey guffaws, his huge frame taking up most of the doorway. “Where are you getting this money?”

I stole wallets at the disco, but I don’t say this. “Don’t worry about it,” I answer gruffly.

_ Rasputin _ ? Solt’s voice echoes in my head. Remembering this, I am dimly aware of his presence, but of course the me in my memory doesn’t hear a thing. 

“Sure, sure, Mr. Tough Guy.” A meaty hand ruffles my hair before he stands aside and I follow him into the club room. Big, tacky seating in green and gold wraps around two of the four walls, and the door to the hallway that leads to Nadia’s room in on our left. Three red-nosed Russians lift their heads and slur greetings. Drunk, yes, nut no less dangerous. I can see guns strapped to at least two of them and another handgun on the table.

“You want vodka?” The lackey asks me, just like every other time. He carries on before I can answer. “Brand new delivery, fresh from the docks!  _ Hey, vodka-boy! _ ” he yells at the door.

“Yeah, yeah,” a grumble comes from the other side of the door. A man pushes through shoulder first, hauling a case stamped with  _ Moskovskaya Osobaya _ . “Try to make it last the whole month this time, ya?”

“ _ Ahh _ ,” A man at the table jeers. “You remind me of my mother, Biskup.”

My blood runs cold as Biskup turns and unloads the case on the table with a  _ thump  _ that makes all the bottles inside clink. If I wasn’t already so tense simply because of the nature of this place, I might have cried out. My mouth feels like I have bitten into a lime. But what can I do? If I leave now, so suddenly, it will be suspicious. Yet there’s no way to stop him from seeing my face, and as soon as he does, it’s all over for me. 

“Ah, hello, Rasputin,” Biskup hooks some hair behind his ear before he pulls a bottle from the crate and twists off the cap. This is maybe my sixth visit to the club but it’s only been two weeks: he still has the stitches underneath his eye from where I cut him, and above that, the bruises are still mottled purple and yellow. 

“Mm,” I grunt in reply. My heart is beating so fast, I can barely nod. All he has to do is say the words. Tell them what I did, and he could have them kill me.

“So serious, this one!” The lackey laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “You know him, Ladislav?”

“Yes,” Biskup smiles easily, sniffing the mouth of the bottle before grabbing a glass off the table and starting to pour. “He is always like this. We grew up in the same neighbourhood. It is not an easy life, there.” His eyes bore into mine as he speaks. It is a threat, I’m sure of it.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the lackey scoffs, taking the glass from Biskup’s hand and taking a swig. The liquor is chased by a sigh of relish. “You want to drink with us?” he asks me again, sloshing the cup in my direction.

“No,” I answer, hiding my fear behind my surly monotone.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Biskup muses aloud, pouring more glasses and passing them around the table. “It leaves more for us.”

The men laugh. I shove my hands in my pockets and walk towards the hallway door, feeling every hair on the back of my neck raise up as I pass by Biskup’s watchful gaze. 

“Two hundred,” the lackey reminds me as he follows, glass still in hand. He takes another sip of his drink as I pull the crumpled bills from the pocket of my jeans and thrust them in his direction.

“Pleasure doing business with you, lover-boy,” he chuckles, pocketing the bills before he slumps against the wall next to Nadia’s door. “Nadia!” he calls, knocking. “Your favourite client is here to see you!”

I can barely get inside the room fast enough. As soon as the door shuts behind me, Nadia shoves her face into my chest and wraps her arms around me tightly. My heart leaps in my chest as I look to the pile of stuffed animals. She should never seem this happy to see me when they could be watching! But the bear is gone. Scanning the room, I spot it at the small table in the corner of the room. It is seated in one of the tiny chairs, facing away from us, with cups and saucers strewn across the table’s surface. A tea party. Smart girl.

“Here,” I say, wriggling out of her embrace to fish something else out of my pocket. A lipstick; it was in a purse at the disco. I cut the tip off with a kitchen knife, just in case. It is an uncomfortable thing to give it to her, but it’s better to get it out of the way now. “At the end of today, put some on and smear the edges, okay? They will think that… uh, it will look like…” I struggle with the words.

“Like blowjob,” she answers me frankly.

My heart has had enough pain for today. It must be written all over my face, because she reaches up with her tiny hand and cups my cheek. 

“ _ Jestem twardy _ ,” she says. I don’t know know the words but I think I can guess the sentiment. In some ways, she is stronger than me.

“Okay,” I answer, slumping onto the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees. “What do you want to play today, hm? Another board game?”

Nadia doesn’t answer. Turning her face to the wall, she clambers up onto the bed and presses her ear to the plaster. I stop talking and listen, just able to make out the sounds of raised voices. They get louder, yelling Russian, something about choking, I think, and then there is a  _ crash  _ of breaking glass that makes both Nadia and I jump.

“ _ Policja? _ ” she asks hopefully, looking at me. 

I don’t think so. “Put on your lipstick,” I mutter, getting to my feet. I yank at the doorknob out of instinct but it stays stuck in place. Shit! Fucking deadbolt. I have an urge to call out for help but I swallow it, pressing my ear to the wood instead. Just when I am trying to listen carefully, the  _ bang  _ of a gunshot floods my mind with adrenalin. Pounding on the door with my fist, I swear and yell for the lackey to come. There’s no reply. 

My heart is hammering, and now there is a new problem: we are trapped in here, if no one comes for us, and I don’t know if I can kick out a deadbolt even if it doesn’t matter how much noise I make. Taking a few steps back, I raise my foot uneasily for the first attempt, and it is then that I hear foot steps staggering down the hall. A dull  _ thump  _ right outside the door, and then a tell-tale  _ click  _ followed by more footsteps, even more haggard than before. 

Gasping for air, I rock back down onto two feet once more but I don’t feel much more steady. Glancing back at Nadia, I see her face looks pale, like a sheet, the uncapped lipstick still hovering before her lips. I had been too afraid to move, too. Struck mute, I gesture at her to put it away - who cares about that, now? I am afraid to go out of the door but what other choice is there?

If it was the police, they would have already come in. This grim thought fills my mind as I slowly turn the door knob. Nadia quivers behind me, her fingers in a death grip on one of the loops in my jeans. The air hangs ominous and still out in the hall and my eyes widen as I see the trail of blood drops on the carpet.

“Don’t look,” I say quickly, clapping a hand over Nadia’s eyes. She whimpers, but I put another hand on her back to guide her, blind. We have to get out of here. This is the only chance we’ll ever get. Hurrying down the hall, I open up the door to the club room and my breath hitches in my throat.

I’ve seen a lot of fucked up faces: bats, bruises, boots, knives, even gunshot wounds. These three men have suffered none of these things: they’ve had worse. It’s made them foam at the mouths like rabid dogs, the veins showing up harshly in their discoloured faces. Phlegm and blood are splattered over the front of their shirts and the table where they lay slumped like big, dead dolls. Gawking, I almost forget the little girl right in front of me.

“Don’t look,” I say again, trying to cover her eyes more tightly. But she fights me this time, shaking her head and nipping at my fingers with her teeth. I hiss and snatch my hand back, looking down at her incredulously. She looks at the men, at their bloodshot eyes and purple faces, and she doesn’t cry or cringe. She balls her fists tightly, and for a moment I think she might him them. But then it fades: her hand relaxes, and she turns sharply on her heel and heads towards the door with little more than a curt “ _ Domu _ .”

Home; she wants to go home. I can do that. I can carry her on my back.

_ My task is eternal and clean _ , Biskup’s shining, smiling face greets me back in hell.

“It was you.” I grimace.

_ Nalanclean _ , he answers, eyes twinkling.  _ Now let me in _ .


	24. Righteous

“So it was Biskup who helped you,” Solt says. His voice sounds distant, dreamlike; this whole thing seems like a bad dream now. Biskup’s glowing body bathes the whole apartment in a golden-white light; Solt’s face is illuminated and pale, ethereal. The sight of it gives me pause, makes me draw a breath, and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s still drifting towards the balcony door, only slowly. I flinch, scrambling to my feet (when did I get on my knees?).

“Solt,” I call, joining him at the door. My fingers close around his elbow, but I don’t pull. There doesn’t seem to be a need for that.

“Hm?” he turns to me. I guess he understands what I want without words. “Why not?” he asks, tilting his head. “He’s good, isn’t he? He’s the only reason you managed to save Nadia.”

The words come like a slap to the face. I take my hand off his arm before I hurt him without thinking, turning away to the pane of glass that separates me and Biskup. So much separates us, and yet not much at all. I hate it. This close to him, I can pick up ghostly traces of the din that guided me so effortlessly before I fell into hell; it sounds like humming, like choirs, like whale song. Snippets of a language I no longer know how to speak but I swear I still know what it means. And all the while, Biskup’s holy face staring down at me, blue eyes unblinking, rubbing my nose in all of this  _ holy _ .

_ I won’t force you, brother _ , Biskup smiles with his eyes. His mouth doesn’t move when he speaks.  _ This choice is your own. We all make it. _

“I am not your brother.” I grit my teeth at the glass.

_ You are. _

“Rasputin,” Solt touches my arm, leading me to realise that my hand is clenched in a fist. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want it to be him,” I mutter. “Of all people, out of everyone there was, how could it be someone who helped keep her there?!”

Biskup’s face grows sad.  _ It’s true. _ The words hang in my mind, formless; intangible, but annoyingly present.  _ I was not strong like you. I lived my life poorly: I made excuses for my crimes and I turned a blind eye until someone opened it for me. You, Rasputin! You saved her. You got her home. And she grew up, Rasputin! Nadia, she is a woman now. She has a child. She prays for you - it’s why I have come. _

Nadia. She had a child? The thought never occurred to me. Who knows how long it has been in the mortal world?

_ But none of that matters now. _ Suddenly, he leans down, face looming before mine. I have to squint with the glow this close. _ The task is eternal and clean, Rasputin. It can be so pure for us now! Come with me, and take up the task again. There is no greater joy than the lifting! _

It’s too much. All of it: Biskup, Nadia, the lifting. I shake my head as if I can shake the thoughts away. The obligation of it. The insult of the association. I don’t owe them anything!

“I am not like you!” I yell, barely able to keep myself from pounding on the glass. If I do, I am sure it will break, and then there will be even less between us. Was there ever anything between us at all? Screwing my eyes shut, I breathe through clenched teeth, in and out, so quickly that it becomes a frenzy. I have to stop but I can’t: I can’t do anything. If I open the door then Biskup has won but if I run away then Solt will open it for me. I can’t hurt Solt to stop him but I can’t leave him, either: I can’t do it again. It’s not just for him, it’s about me, too: I need him. I need him more than the world needs me. Please. Please!

Crying out, I rock my head forward, expecting my head to hit against the glass but the impact never comes. Opening my eyes, suddenly I see that there is nothing, not even darkness. Everything is white, not in the blinding way, but light, all the same. There are no walls, no windows, no sound except for the hush of my own breathing. I am standing, I think, but with nothing else to fathom depth, the concept of space has lost all meaning. I am standing, but I stand on nothing. I do not float, but I am floating.

“It’s alright,” a soft voice sounds right in front of me.

Jumping, I blink at the empty space. At first, there’s nothing there, but then a glimmer catches my eye. If I move my head from side to side, I can almost perceive the outline of a child. A little girl, almost as if she is made of glass, but even glass is easier to see than this. Making out more of her features, my heart skips a beat.

“N-nadia?” I stutter.

“Not really,” the form smiles, revealing barely-visible teeth. With no pupils in their eyes, I can’t really tell if they are looking at me. They don’t move much: any body language or gestures seem formulaic and off-beat, like some kind of robot. This one, too, doesn’t move their mouth when speaking, but the sound sounds like real sound, truly: not at all like the angelic thought-injection that Biskup uses. “I made mankind in my image,” they say, “but my image was not a man when I made mankind. For I am everything, and also nothing, so how can I be any one thing?”

I don’t fully understand what they are telling me but then again, maybe I’m not meant to. Maybe it’s impossible. The idea is disturbing but oddly comforting. So I stay where I am standing. Where would I run to, anyway?

“So why am I here?” I ask. It’s hard not to fret: I feel like a child, in the face of this thing.

“I can give you the answer, you know,” they tell me.

“What answer?” I frown.

“How to be happy. How to find meaning. It’s all part of a system, you see. You have everything you need to find it, but you haven’t been  _ using _ everything. You have to understand by now that you can’t do it by yourself. You have to ask someone, so ask me.”

“How can that be the way!?” I cry helplessly. “After all my life? After everything? I just ask you what to do, and that’s it!?”

They make motions that are eerily close to giggling but they grow serious again soon after. “The blindness of faith is what gives it power,” they tell me. “The insanity of mankind’s actions is vital to the perpetuation of life itself.”

“Then nothing else had meaning!” I accuse them angrily.

“I wouldn’t… say…  _ that _ ,” they muse slowly, turning in an idle circle before looking down at their feet. Suddenly, as if they have flicked a light switch, the whole world is under my feet. I gasp. It’s as breathtaking as the first time I saw it: I remember the moments after dying, when I agreed to to take up the task because it had seemed like everything…  _ everything _ . And then it was all taken away from me again so easily.

“It all has  _ meaning _ , Rasputin,” they tell me. “Every living thing is part of an intricate machine. You just can’t comprehend it, and that’s not your fault, truly. It is by design. I have no intention of making another being like me.”

I feel sick. Maybe. Maybe the feeling is more like a curse of not knowing, like gravity even when there is nothing. The planet sits beneath me in an an orchestra of white, blue, brown, grey and green. Swirls of clouds and weather systems move so slowly, it seems, from this far away, but down on earth they could be moving as fast as a hurricane. Or it could be completely still, and I am just seeing things. It’s getting harder and harder to think.

“Maybe,” the glimmer chimes, sidling into my peripheral vision. “It would be better to think of yourself and Solt, instead of all of humanity.”

“How do I stay with him?” I blurt, turning to face them. “How do I keep him safe when it feels like everything is trying to pull us apart now?”

Another ghostly, glassy smile. More teeth. “Your purpose doesn’t have to pull you away from him. All the rules of where angels and demons can and cannot go are imaginary. Hell exists because I allow it. It has a place in the system, and you do too.”

_ You. Do. Too. _

The words echo in my mind along with all this  _ nalanclean  _ and  _ holy  _ and I feel a rush of energy, the return of feelings and touch and atmosphere as my mind blinks back into awareness in the place that has become my home: a rich boy’s apartment that floats over a barren wasteland in the afterlife. The corner of my lips twitches with a manic feeling. The laughter doesn’t quite come: it’s weighed down by the magnitude of this epiphany. All this knowledge that I have, now. As my eyes gain focus again, they flick back to Biskup’s face in the window.

He blinks, just once, perhaps the only time since he arrived on the balcony. Straightening up again, his expression rearranges itself into one that is serene.  _ I understand _ , he says.  _ The choice is your own. Be good, brother. You always have been _ .

And just like that, he takes his leave. The black, swirling clouds have long since dissipated. All he has to do is turn back to the railing and spread his wings, drifting up and over and then he is gone. Staring, open-mouthed, I catch another glimpse of him before his glowing form hurtles up into the broody sky, as quick as lightning.

Solt gawks too. We turn to face each other, speechless. And I have so much hope in my heart but I do not know how to pick the words to tell him yet. It all make sense, you see: there is a place for me. I understand now, that I am not  _ lesser  _ because my feet touch the ground here. This fear of being lesser or equal to Biskup or even comparing myself to him at all was a stupid thing. We are not the same. I was  _ made  _ to interact with these people. Solt, yes, but also the sinners: the ones who still carry on doing evil things even after they have died. And I know exactly how to punish them.

My task is not pristine, but it is righteous.


	25. Epilogue

“Are you sure about this?” Solt asks me with a deep furrow in his brow. We are standing together on the balcony. Somehow, the sky looks a little brighter behind the smoky clouds. I am wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. Solt has been doing a lot better, lately: he is back to wearing boxer briefs and a long, red, silk robe with white flowers. He always did like to sleep late, whatever ‘late’ means, now. 

“It’s not like before,” I say, looking out at the wastelands below. “I remember everything now. I know where I am going.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Solt shakes his head. He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. “I remember the times when you escaped those people. I remember the marks, the scars, the missing teeth. Who knows what they will do to you next? These people are  _ monsters _ , Rasputin.”

“So?” I cock my head, looking at him incredulously. Does he think I have forgotten? Now, when I remember everything? I remember so much that some of it blurs together, yes, but the pain is easy to recall; the violence, the cruelty. They are monsters, yes, and that is why I must do this thing. “What does it matter, anyway?” I say gamely. “You made the mirror. Just rewind my skin, like you did the first time. Whatever they do to me, you can wipe it clean again.” 

Solt falters, and shakes his head with an expression close to embarrassment. “That’s not what I made the mirror for,” he mutters. “I was trying to rewind to before you were an angel at all. It seems so stupid, now. Still, it’s useful, but that’s not the  _ point _ , Rapsutin!” He shakes me by the shoulders. “It’s not about what happens after, the problem is that it happens at all! Are you  _ sure  _ this is something you have to do?”

“Yes,” I answer, face full of resolve. “I was made to do this thing.”  _ Holy _ , I add, but only by thinking. Solt is still not particularly comfortable with the angelic aspects of me. There are still many differences between us. I don’t really hold it against him; we had very different lives, after all. And he is slowly getting better at accepting that.

“I don’t like it,” he frowns. His hand slips down my arm and gives my elbow a squeeze, reluctant to let go of me. 

I smile, reaching up to pinch his cheek. “You want to wear your heels again, huh?” I tease him with the suggestion. “You acted like such a bigshot when you first brought me here.”

This time, his face looks downright guilty. “I’d been drinking,” he admits sheepishly, his red eyes darting away. “I used to drink a lot. I guess you didn’t see it much… it was mostly for the clients. It made it easy to make up this whole other personality, one that helped with job.”

“I saw enough,” I shrug. It wasn’t exactly like it was a big secret. I don’t hold the liquor against him, either. If I had to do what Solt did, I would have become a drunk, too. “But hey!” I try to cheer him up. “You don’t have to drink, now. No more clients, either. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, anymore.” 

“I guess,” he murmurs. I don’t give up.

“You want to play house with me?” I chuckle, leaning in closer to kiss at his cheek. “Make food and read those books you like while you wait for me to come home like it’s some kind of nine-to-five at a factory?”

He blushes, swatting me away. “ _ Glupyy _ .”

“You wear apron for me?” I barely stifle my smirk as I push my face towards his. He lets out a snort of laughter and puts his hand over my mouth in an effort to get me to stop.

“So uncool!” he scolds me. Then, after a moment more: “Yes, though,” he smiles and presses his forehead to mine. “You will come back to me this time?”

“I will come back to you,” I promise, dipping my head to give him a kiss. I breathe in, letting the moment linger before I steel myself and turn back to the balcony railing, preparing to climb over.

“W-wait!” Solt tugs at my sleeve urgently.

“Solt,” I begin, but stop myself from arguing when I see what he is doing. He is not clinging, this time: he is making something for me. A mesh, of some kind. It starts out glowing as he works it under his hands, shaping it into an uneven kind of ring. When he is done, it cools into grey steel. He reaches up and places it over my head, like a circlet, but the broader edge of thick mesh covers the upper half of my face. I almost comment that it feels loose before the metal band tightens slightly under his careful guidance.

“It’s better to hide your face in Hell,” he says tenderly, stroking my cheek. “ You don’t want the demons of your past to recognise you.”

“Okay,” I agree. “I have to go now, but I will be back soon.”

“Okay.”

I don’t like goodbyes very much, not even ones like this. I grip the bannister and hop over, feeling the adrenalin flood my system as I plummet to the badlands below. My wings unfurl a moment later and then I am gliding, the blistered landscape zipping by so quickly that it is difficult to focus on it. Looking out at the distance, though, things move more slowly, and I am able to pick out some mountains and rocky outcrops that look familiar. The first time will be the hardest for Solt, I know, but it will also be the shortest. I will not be killing anyone today. All I need to do is make a few arrangements.

I don’t remember the way exactly, but I remember enough to get me in the right vicinity, and from my great height it is easy to pick out the mouth of the burrow that leads down to the slave market. The ground is downtrodden from so many visitors over time. It must be a real popular place, lately. That is good.

I push the mesh mask up and off my face as soon as I land. I feel a little bad lying to Solt like that. The circlet… it is a very good idea, and I will use it, but not today. You see, I know exactly who is waiting for me in the market. There is only one person it could be. Because there was never a reason, a good, logical reason, for me to be sold in the first place. In the worst hours of my delirium, when I first came to this place and started killing, I would have done so indiscriminately. Anyone, and anything. I would have killed demons, other angels who had fallen from grace, and especially slaves who were locked in the same cage. That would have been very bad for business; unless, of course, the businesswoman had a much more personal motive.

There is no auction today. The large, underground chamber is empty and the seats are stacked in columns along the walls. The stage looks small and unimpressive when the spotlights aren’t like and there is no great crowd waiting. As it is, the room is dimly lit by the glowing red veins in the rocks that have been carved out to make this space. I don’t know what makes them glow, but the whole thing makes me think of the inside of a heart, or some kind of alien body. There is no heart beating now, though; the air hangs still and eery. That is, until, my arrival causes something to stir at the far corner of the room, and a great door pushes open. 

Bony, scratchy footsteps echo in the chamber and her hulking form comes into view. Not so hulking without her gown, really: her wings, if you could call them suck things, protrude from her hips in such a way that she walks like a great spider, with her human legs tucked under her. 

“Hello, Katarina,” I greet her. Death does not become her, I think, at least not in the same way that it does for Solt. Or maybe it is her fault that she looks like this. Her lower jaw is pushed forward to make way for her monstrous teeth. She still has the same smooth, high forehead accentuated by a pony tail but it set above large, terrible eyes that are entirely crimson. Her skin has taken on a mottled, purple hue, like some kind of poison, or bruise, and she is dressed in a night gown that looks like it was spun from spider’s web. 

“So,” she greets me with a wrinkled nose, pacing around the perimeter of the auction hall with each bony footfall coming as a hard, aggravated stab into the dirt. “The dog has got his memories back.”

“It is not so easy to get rid of me,” I point out. 

“It was easy enough, the first time,” she scoffs.

“Mm,” I hum in agreement. It was: that night in front of the TV store, when I had asked Solt to pick me up, the same kind of town car he always used had pulled up. I remember being surprised when the window rolled down to reveal not Solt, but Katarina holding a 9mm pistol. It was easy for her to shoot me at such a close range. “But,” I smile with my eyes. “You should have known it would not be so easy to kill someone with a name like Rasputin.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneers. “No one truly dies here. You are not special.”

“Maybe not,” I drawl. “But your son is doing well.” 

She groans in disgust at the mention of him. “That little failure,” she grimaces, dragging the tips of her wing-legs across the ground for agonising effect. “I wish I had a daughter. When he turned to be a blue boy, I thought he could still become a powerful member of the family. But just like all men, he was weak.” 

“Strong enough to defy you, I think,” I point out snidely.

“Weak!” She barks the retort back at me. A snigger pulls at her blood-painted lips. “You know, when he first met you, I was glad,” she sighs. “You helped him be less of a pussy. But then, when you got older…  he loses focus. He starts missing appointments, talking to clients about stupid things. Taking you out of the picture should have fixed it.” 

“Did it?” I ask gamely. I already know the answer.

“No,” she answers darkly. “That little shit caused the collapse of our entire business. And for what?” Katarina throws me a disparaging look. “Some filthy street urchin?” 

“Yes,” I goad her. “All for me. And now I am here, and I remember everything.”

“ _ Tch _ . What will you do now? Beat me?” She asks haughtily. She is very good at ignoring the metal mask gripped in my fist but I know that she has taken note of it.

I pause as if I am pondering an answer. “Hmm… no. It was a clean chest shot. And now Solt and I have more time together than we ever did while we were alive. But you  _ will  _ help me with something, Katarina.”

“And why would I help you?” she sneers. 

“Because if you don’t, I am going to tell Solt that you are already down here,” I tell her. “He is not like you: he can make things that are far better than this little burrow of yours. Imagine what he could make to torture you, the bitch who killed his boyfriend?” 

I am bluffing. I would never expose Solt to this woman again. Still, I can tell she believes me. I am very good at bluffing; I once faked my way into a child kidnapping operation, after all. Who knows what is racing through her mind now, with the notion of a powerful creator having all of eternity to take his revenge on her. Her home-spun garments and auction paddles wouldn’t be able to save her. If Katarina could make things in the same way that Solt can, she would be dripping in diamonds, I know it.

“So what is it you want me to do?” she hisses, words dripping with resent. 

“You’re going to sell me again,” I clap my hands together. “And again and again: as many times as I want you to. And when I am done with the ones who buy me, you won’t say a word about it.”

“That will never work,” she spits. “Even if I don’t talk, the clients will as soon as they come back.”

“Ah, but they won’t come back, Katarina,” I chide her. “Not after I am finished with them.”

“So this is your plan,” she speaks as though a bad taste in her mouth. “To run me out of business, like my idiot son did?”

“In Hell?” It is my turn to scoff, now. “I don’t think so. There will never be a shortage of demons wanting to buy themselves a plaything. They think it will make them happy. I will show them that they are wrong.”

She grunts, turning abruptly and pacing faster along the far wall. I can tell she has run out of arguments. “Good,” I say gamely. “I will see you the next time I decide to be sold. You can leave me until the end like last time - that’s when the worst ones bid, anyway.” With that, I turn to leave. I have kept Solt waiting long enough, I think.

“He shot himself, you know,” she calls out behind me. 

I stop, clenching my jaw. “Of course I know,” I shoot back bitterly. It is low of her to try to use that to surprise me but then again, I do not expect much from a woman like this. “Maybe he would not have done it if you weren’t such a cunt.”

The parting words leave me in a sour mood for the flight home, but I do find myself feeling a little lighter as the floating apartment comes into view. Who knew that things could work out so easily if you just ask someone for help? See, God: I am learning. Working with Katarina will be unpleasant, perhaps sometimes even less pleasant than dealing with whoever is fool enough to buy me, but it is necessary. 

There is no black hurricane surrounding the building, which is a good sign. Landing heavily on the railing, I jump down and slip back inside the balcony door. Everything is as it should be: all signs of our fighting have long since faded away. I leave my circlet on the kitchen counter and crack the door to Solt’s office, expecting to find him poring over a book. 

Empty. He has not come to greet me yet, either.

I turn my head to the bedroom door. He could be sleeping. Still, there is a nagging thought that something could have gone wrong, that another demon could have found this place in my absence, or Solt could have hurt himself. If something bad has happened to him now, after everything, I will raze this place to the ground. My pulse picks up speed as I take long strides across the carpet and open the door.

All murderous thoughts leave me. He is only sleeping. I should not have worried. The peaceful sight is disarming: on top of the covers, he probably only laid his head down to feel better but ended up falling asleep. He is curled up on his side, my baseball bat held loosely in the cradle of his crossed wrists. A fond smile tugs at my lips - did he really have no other surrogate for me? Still, I’m touched. Doing my best to be quiet, I shuck off my jeans and climb onto the empty side of the bed, settling in behind him. 

He stirs when I drape my hand across his hip. “Rasputin,” he murmurs sleepily, having lost all sense of time with his napping. “Do you need the mirror?”

“No,” I plant a kiss on his shoulder. “Today I was only looking.”

He gives a melodic hum in reply, settling down again. After a moment, he drops my baseball bat onto the covers and cups my palm to his chest instead, interlacing my fingers with his. Like this, I can feel his heart beat. “I love you,” he sighs.

“I love you, too,” I tell him. I close my eyes, and I am so happy.


End file.
